The heart we have, that is also flesh
by Ysolde
Summary: The story of Tristran , of his mate, of those around them, and of the big turning of the Wheel.
1. Tristran

_**The usual disclaimers apply. Tristran is a wild thing. I don't own him, or his friends.**_

_**/\/\/**_

_**Ch. 1 - Tristran.**_

_**(Seven years before Badon Hill.)**_

_Bors relates :_

It is not that Tristran is a stranger to the consumption of beverages. I shall not be the one to say that he can't hold his liquor, but the fact remains that I am roughly one and a half time his slender size, and Dagonet twice. Me sweet ma back home would have considered him frail, and would probably have insisted that he eat more.

_What a battle of wills it would have been, _I caught myself thinking, eyeing him with amazement as he once again drained his mug.

Indeed the stubborn ass continued hanging on, as a badger with its teeth dug into the snout of a bear, seemingly oblivious to its own more and more battered state.

We all knew he sometimes had the slightest streak of a deathwish, yet I couldn't help thinking that this was somehow unlike him. He wasn't usually going at it like that. The more I thought about it, the more it occurred to me that I had really never, in the eight years I had known the man, seen him in a state like this. More than that, he usually seemed to be slightly disgusted with the rest of us when we overindulged ourselves.

Tristran liked his occasional brew, but he never indulged.

_He is going to faint, _ I thought, _If we let him go on like that. _But he looked up at us through his eyelashes with just the hint of a demonic grin, his dark eyes fully unveiling the madman that all of we, his brothers-in-arms, know is in there somewhere. A rusty throat-sound that possibly could have been a laugh came from him, and then he keeled over momentarily and got up again, his movements peculiarly animalistic as always. Like a big shoddy gamebird with a broken wing, fluttering along the floor and hoisting himself into position at the table again.

Dagonet threw me a sidelong glance. _What are we going to do? _

Of course the damned scout saw it. Not even his present state seemed to dull those sharp hawkeyes of his, and he looked from me to Dag nastily, his gaze alone making it quite apparent. _Don't even think about it! _

So we didn't. I, for one, have been sparring with this guy enough times not to. I can handle myself, and usually – usually – manage not to get hurt, but then again, I am always completely wasted afterwards, while the bastard stands there looking as if the top of his activity has been scratching his bony arse. I have often even suspected him of making it too easy for me, perhaps out of consideration for Vanora – the poor gal always overreacts to the slightest nicks. But he has never even had the decency to deny or confirm my accusations.

Plus, I wasn't exactly sober meself either. And even though we weren't wearing our weapons in here, he always keeps a knife somewhere. Or two.

Or five.

He wouldn't use them? Don't be daft. He wouldn't _hurt us _with them. But he would definitely use them. Though if blood was spilt it would most likely be because of a stupid move into the line of danger on one's own account. You don't berate the wolf when you get yourself bitten.

Honestly, I've wracked me brain several times over as to why it was us – me and Dag – that he ended up with. Not that Tristran is 'with' anyone really, apart from that blasted bird of his. But there is, after all, only so much of your time you can avoid others.

I guess that must be it. Well, for my part. I decided not to leave him alone, at least not all the time. And somewhere along the line, he resigned to his fate. Ha!

I never knew much about his life before we were sent to Britain, save that he came from one of the easternmost tribes, all the way at the northend of the big lake the Romans call 'Caspian' (we don't call it any such nonsense – it is the Big Lake, and the biggest there is on all the Plains. Isn't that adequate description?).

They say the people of the tribes there are highly susceptible, so much so that even the males occasionally are gifted with the clear Sight that otherwise mostly women can boast, the abillity to see behind the Veil of this world and remember what they see there.

If someone told me that my brother hawkboy was one of those males, I wouldn't be the slightest surprised. It certainly would explain the way he frets over that hawk. He had it already when we set the course for Britain. A bony scarecrow he is now, and so he was then, sticking to himself and at the back of the line as we rode west and west and west, never, as I remember it, uttering a single word during the two months it took us to get to the Isles. He did have a small flute of bone which he occasionally played. It sounded like the spirits of the dead. He was quite good.

Being from the easternmost tribe he had also been the first to be collected. I'll take the liberty of guessing that he had probably not had a good time with the Roman Centurion before we were more people to take the brunt of said Centurions obvious distaste for the job he had been sent to do. Foultempered old git that one was! Ended up breaking the flute, around Lutetia I think.Tristran just sticked to the shutting-up part after that.

Presently, I looked again at my slightly influenced friend. Correction : my completely shitfaced friend.

It really wasn't like him to drown his sorrows. That was what the rest of us did. He, on the other hand, carried whatever griefs he had like a king would a crown. That is, with a kind of graceful disregard. It initially never even seemed to be clear to me whether he had any, though as Vanora once said to me upon discussing the subject, he must have. There is only one thing, she said, can close up a man like that, and that is sorrow. Old sorrow, or knowing himself very well. Or both.

Vanora has always been a clever girl.

Even now he was a man of few words. Just sat there looking at us, obviously disgusted with all this attention, and absentmindedly cutting his fingers with his knife during a supposed nailcleansing routine.

"Stop that!" And Dag reached out with brave disregard and took the knife from him. After a short skirmish, he actually managed to do so. _Gods, Tristran must be pissed! _ I thought.

I wisely stayed out of the staring contest that ensued. No good coming between those two when they have one of their contests.

Finally, however, it got too much. "You two. You look like a pair o' Roman bloody accountant slaves 'aving to tend the books of deceased Emperor Nero, May 'is Corpse Rot In The Ground."

They turned as one and stared at me instead. Fantastic! Me and me big mouth.

However, I was happily influenced and getting tired of the whole exercise. "Tristran." I said. "Either tell us what the bloody 'ell is up, or go and have a lie-down. Otherwise it will end up with you flying your birdbrain into the Wall on your way home, which will be a shame, as we have a drill tomorrow where I promptly expect to give you a good arse-whipping."

There, that ought to provoke him a bit. Hopefully Dag would see to it that he got to bed. Or at least did not have more drink.

And with that thought, I rose and headed off home, towards Vanora and the five brats, leaving the Dumb Twins to ponder the meaning of me Pearls o' Shitfaced Wisdom, or continue their staring game at their leisure. I don't mind being the talkative entertainer, but a man can only take so much silence.

_/\/\/_

_Dagonet relates : _

Bors ended up leaving early that night. He was probably feeling uneasy about the whole thing, and I can't say I blame him. However goodhearted, Bors is not exactly the brightest of lights when it comes to finding out stuff without people telling him flat out. He likes flat out best. That is probably why he and Vanora makes such a good couple.

I, however, have had at least some training in the healing arts. Not much, but I manage. And I know hurt when I see it. It had been obvious for some time now, that something was persistently troubling him. He had always been a quiet one, and very observant, and he had always been a bit odd. Truth be told, I think the reason why Bors and I were the ones interacting with him most is because we are both strong guys, big guys, so we can hold our ground against him, at least relatively, during the drills. What I can't say that I have in grace or skill, I make up for with my size and my strength. And I trust him. He delights slightly in freaking people out, true, but he wouldn't hurt any of us (unless we hurt him first). That much I trust, though I know that not all of them see it the same way. Particularly not Lancelot, but then it never sat well with his pride to be condemned to the eternal second place.

Poor, flashy, vain Lancelot. Those two really don't see eye to eye at all. Galahad, as well, is occasionally terrified. He was the youngest, of course, and terrified of all of us when he arrived. But it seems Tristran is the only one towards whom that fear never fully evaporated.

But while Tristran has always been a loner, and a killer, the sadness in him had gotten worse. I sit watching him as he finally curls up in the corner behind the table, ignoring me completely, dragging his knees up in front of him and finally, in spite of himself, falling asleep, granting me the first experience ever of seeing him asleep from drink, in all the years I have known him.

I wonder and try to put a finger on when exactly it started to get like that. And why, even with this enhanced sadness in him, on this exact occasion our oddball has suddenly done something as totally unlike him as getting drunk.

The more I think about it, the more it strikes me that it began somwhere after Tintagel.

It is at that moment that Muirgeirn enters the place. Whatever she is doing in a tavern this time of the evening, seeing as she doesn't work here, is beyond me. For all I know she might have sensed that I wished she was here and could help me out. As a healer, I admire her. The woman knows a good deal more than your usual local Clever Woman. She is Arthurs elder sister, but their relationship is rather strange. Their mother sent her, back before she died, to be raised in the Old Ways. Much to the dismay of their Roman father. I understand that they were the dearest of siblings once, but that it is different now. It is not that they hate each other, they just seem estranged in some way.

She came back recently, now a priestess. She is a good and friendly woman.

She walks over and sits beside me at the table, ignoring the surprised glances of the rest of the clientele. They have seen a Holy Woman before, but the hour is a bit odd.

She is a tiny woman, dark and frail. The blood of the woad runs clearly in her veins, even more so than with Arthur (Entangled family that. Must be odd for him, to spend so much time killing the people of his mother, though he seems to regret it little, why I know not).

She places her small hands under her chins and together we sit, looking at the mess in the corner behind the table. She shakes her head sadly. She is perhaps the only female here that I know of, apart from Vanora, who doesn't seem particularly intimidated by Tristrans presence.

"He will kill us if we let him sit there in public until tomorrow, you know." She laughs, a soft laugh. Considering that he chose his usual corner of the place, and furthermore that it is the darkest corner, and that he has not made any spectacle of himself, except in the eyes of those who know him, we have hardly been noticed. Still, she reaches out and pokes at him.

His eyes snap open immediately. He hasn't been sleeping after all. I would like to say that i am surprised, but I am not. He looks at both of us, and for a moment I see something there, something deep and raw. But his face is adamant, inscrutable as always. He looks from one to the other. Then he unfolds himself and rises, slowly but surprisingly steadily, from his place. He looks down at us and glances at his knife, which I am still holding in my hand. Then he walks past us and leaves the tavern, going whereever it is that he goes when he does like that. He leaves the knife.

When we come out, he is gone.

"Tintagel," I say to her.

She nods in response. "I know."


	2. Tintagel

_**The usual disclaimers apply. No copyright infringement intended, blah de blah blah.**_

_**Authors note : I don't know how interested people are, but I would much like to hear someones opinion on whether I should just post all the stuff I have right away, seeing as I by now have 10 – 12 chapters, of which 1 to 6 are chronological – so theoretically, I could post the last 4 which are ready. However, this would not give me so much advantage of your reviews along the road... but let me know what you think. -Y.**_

_**/\/\/**_

_**Ch. 2 - Tintagel .**_

_**(Seven and a half years before Badon Hill.)**_

_Dagonet relates_

"You are saying you did not sire this child?" demanded Arthur. "How so?" He looked pale. Nervous, as if harbouring some suspicion that he had not considered before. It wasn't like him, and I wondered why he was so stricken. After all, Muirgeirn had always walked her own ways?

But for the moment, Arthurs ire was aimed at Lancelot. Pretty Lancelot who was always prime suspect where mysteriously conceiving women were concerned. But Lance was just staring sulkily back at him. I kept myself to the back, wishing I hadn't been there. The whole matter was somewhat embarassing. This was Muirgeirns own business. No one present understood Arthurs meddling. _Christians!_

"You realize that this is my sister? I might not share her ideas of God, but still she is worthy of your respect! She is a priestess in her own right." Arthur was looking calm. As an oncoming storm looks calm.

"That may be all very well," Lancelot spat. "But this is not of my doing!" And he sat down, his face clearly showing that he considered this to be the end of it.

Muirgeirn stood as frozen on the floor, like a lost child, cradling her belly and looking around as a small animal would, searching for shelter. _Why, _I found myself wondering, _Isn't she just saying who is the sire? She might not be beholden to any man, or having to account for her ways the way of the christian women... but if it makes her pious brother happy, why not just tell him and have peace?_

It was then that the low drawl of Tristran was heard.

"It is mine."

All turned and looked at the scout, aghast that he as spoken at all. He had risen from his usual withdrawn seat in the hall, and stood there evenly, absentmindedly cleansing his nails with his knife, eyeing them all in turn, as if daring them to challenge this claim.

Few can manage that stare that have any bad deed on their conscience, and it worked, this time as always. It takes a killer to spot a killer, and this one is Death in person on the British Isles. They all know that. And they were scared shitless.

A slight glint as of amusement emerged in the scouts eyes. His mouth curled into something joyless that could have been a smile – had it been on anyone elses lips but his.

"Muirgeirn demanded my service on last Beltaine," he said softly. "She is a priestess. Naturally I complied." And he sat down again as if there was nothing more natural in the world.

It seemed that the whole room released its breath at that. Muirgern looked at him gratefully, and the tense air seemed to leave the hall. An explanation for the unexpected mystery was found, and nobody seemed really interested in whatever it was. Sometimes humans are indeed a bloody conflict-avoiding lot. Muirgeirn with child by Tristran? _Like hell._

It seemed that no one noticed the dangerous sparkle in his gaze as he held Lancelots, until the other had to look down.

Well, _I_ did. But I guess everyone else was too busy quickly changing the subject.

I also noticed that those two never spoke much to each other after that.

Or 'even less', as would probably be the right term for it.

_/\/\/_

_Muirgeirn relates : _

There a some matters in which Artorius and I just don't see eye to eye. One of them is spirituality. Another is my affairs. Artorius should be more careful. He had become very Roman in my absence. While deep down he knew that I am not beholden to him in any way, I still often had (and have) arguments with him as to why dear Pelagius' concern with equality never seemed to stop the Romans from having absurd customs regarding how man and woman commune and work together.

I talked to Dagonet about it once, and I remember his response vividly.

"It is no secret that we always wondered at the way the Roman men treat the Roman women. Especially the christian Romans, though the normal kind is hardly any better." And he shook his head in puzzlement, almost sadly. "And they call _us_ barbarians..."

I stand before Artorius now, furious, finally allowing myself, in the privacy of his chambers, to lose my composure and throw the first thing within my reach at him.

It happens to be a clay relief of Pelagius, and he catches it desperately midair, hardly daring to meet my eyes. I know they must look like thunderclouds right now.

"_What, _pray tell, was that all about little brother?" I spit the last two words at him, my anger threatening to overwhelm me. "Have you no shame?! I am your _sister, _not your servant, and not some witless ninny from Rome! I have responsibilities of my own! Did it not occur to you that maybe, just _maybe, _my child could have been of the Horned One, the identity of he whose face he took a private matter?"

He is cowering before me, and I know I should stop, but somehow I just can't. Somehow the humiliation of being thus questioned upon my arrival at his home, publicly and amongst his men, demands repayment in full. And while the priestess in me tells me that I should stay calm, that it is enough now, Muirgeirn is not listening. Right now, she is not listening at all.

"I am ashamed of you, Artorius Castus!" At those words I think I sound like our mother. And from the effect on him, from the pain in his eyes, I suddenly know just how much.

Abruptly, I cut myself short. The silence that follows is thick with grief.

"Oh, Artorius, I am sorry." And shyly, he shuffles closer to me and awkwardly puts his arms around me. He is so huge compared to me. I feel myself stiffening as he embraces me, but I do not push him away. I couldn't do that to him, not right now.

"Some siblings we are, you and I," he mutters gloomily. Then he sighs, a sigh I know well. He is exasperated with himself.

"I shall go," he says, "and apologise to Tristran. It is none of my business." He pauses for a moment before looking down at me. "I hope also, that you will accept my apology for such welcome, my sister."

He looks so guilty that I want to cry, then. _You have no idea, Artorius. You simply have no idea._

But I steel myself. I look back and smile with a good deal more relaxation than I feel, and even pat my belly as if to calm both of us.

"All forgiven, little brother."

He brightens a bit at that. Then he tilts his head slightly, pondering.

"It is well," he concedes finally, "That my sister is with child. But I hardly think that Camlann and the Wall is the place to give birth..." I am just about to interrupt him, for I have seen the woman of Bors with her brats running all around the place, but he raises his hand in a pleading gesture.

"Please, sister, hear me out. I... know that you are not beholden to me in any way, but will you at least do your stupid little brother a favor and go and see a good midwife?" He smiles slightly at my tired looks. "Also," he adds slyly, "I know that you are no small knower of diplomacy, my sister. I would be very grateful if you could go and speak to Marcus at Tintagel. He has been giving me red blisters lately, keeping the garrisons down to tend his house while leaving us up here to hold the woads at bay." he shakes his head dramaticly. "You know how I am with diplomacy.."

_That is more like it! _And I immediately feel better again, being now given a sensible offer fit for my station.

"So," I repeat slowly, making sure that I have understood what he has asked of me, "Officially I am to go to Cornwall, to seek the council of Marcus' wife, while trying to make sure that the old cheapskate coughs up some of his men to help you out?"

"She _is _the best healer on the Isles, even counting yourself, sister. And she is far more reasonable than her old mule of a husband."

He grins boyishly at me then, evidently extremely satisfied with himself. _And he should be, _I find myself thinking, with no small amusement. _Leave diplomacy to the province of us women. You go do what you do best, and fight._

"You are not yet so heavy with child, that it is foolish to undertake such a journey?" He asks then, looking suddenly apprehensive. I shake my head at him.

"Brother, have you forgotten how to count? It is four months since Beltaine. I will be able to move about for some time yet."

_Four months, _I think, _since you let your men go to their celebration. _

The names of the Sarmatian gods might be slightly different but they still recognize that all Gods are One, and the forefathers living in us all.

And Artorius might be a Christian, but at least he lets his men follow the traditions. Sometimes he even allows himself to be persuaded to join the festivities. Some Beltaine it had been.

"I shall go," I said, "and persuade Marcus."

"Good." He beams at me, then furrows his brow once more in thought. "Better go and talk to Tristran, then." And he looks at me teasingly. "You know, I even think that it is he that I shall send with you to support the case. I can only spare one, and he is clearly the most able." He grins, "As you no doubt will know, priestess!"

I just punch his side ever so slightly then, and he throws his arms in the air in surrender. "I'll go, I'll go. Please sister, go and ask Vanora to help you get quarters and wash the dust of travel off yourself. It will be a short stay then, I am affraid, but do get your rest."

And he is off, relieved, to search out Tristran, leaving me to wish that it was really that silent vigilante who was the father of my child, if for nothing else, then at least for his strange decision to so come to my rescue. And mourning that feeling, that Artorius for some reason feel uncomfortable about having to look at me in my present condition.

_At least now, _I comfort myself, _he and Lancelot will not be fighting over the matter._

We were off a week or so later, and of course Artorius ended up sending both Tristran and Dagonet with me. They would hold the Wall, he assured me, there were still twelve of them.

I was happy to be off, being quite exhausted by his incessant nagging, as well as being glad to see the last of Lancelot. I care deeply for dear Lancelot, make no mistake. But a part of me also just despises him. It might be that old matters have a say in this. We had something, a long long time ago. We were very young. And he never seemed to get it, that that was then, and that breaking a young girls heart will indefinitely immunize her to your charms.

Oh well. You grow up, you learn.

It is quite a journey to Tintagel. They call it _World's End _down there, and the light has a strange unreal quality to it. The three of us found out that we were comfortable with each others company, none of us being of the overly talkative persuasion. I was probably the one that talked most, my two companions listening much of the time. Dagonet intently, Tristran inbetween, when he was not off ahead or feeding mice to his hawk. He caught them alive for her, if she was not off hunting on her own.

I have never seen a man and a beast sharing a bond like that. Not even the love Artorius' men have for their horses seems to rival it. I marvelled at the two of them, him with the squirming mouse in its tail and her gripping hold of it with her beak and breaking its neck cleanly. Both of them a picture of grim satisfaction, and seemingly oblivious to their surroundings.

"_She is the only woman he has ever loved"_, whispered Dagonet at one point, and both of them turned as one and looked at us. She with her hawkeyes, he with that still-water-goes-deep look of his. Dagonet just laughed low in his chest, and I had to follow, until the two being the brunt of our joke withdrew to the forest ahead, bemused and possibly slightly offended. It was some hours before we saw them again, rounding some bend of the road and finding them there, waiting for us as if nothing had happened at all.

I got to talk a lot to Dagonet during our journey. When he is opened up, he is a wonderful conversation partner. Intelligent, wellbehaved and thinking before he puts his words together. He had a down-to-earth wisdom I could often have wished my poor little brother possessed.

I learned of the years I had been away, leaving as I did, shortly after their arrival from the east, only visiting Artorius occasionally after that.

Dagonet told of how they each had little circles within the great circle of the table – Himself, Bors and Tristran forming sort of their own, Gaheris, Gawain, Uwaine and Galahad another (I laughed at that – he made their names sound like a nursery rhyme). Bedwyr was a story all of his own, it turned out, with his obsession with observing the phenomena around him, not unlike to the way of the greek philosophers I learnt of at the Holy Isle. And then there was all the rest of them. They got fewer every year. Caius and Hector were gone. They had been nearest to Artorius. That I was not surprised about. They were of Roman stock, not Sarmatians, and he felt most comfortable with them around, back in younger days. But the Wall demanded its taxes in blood, every year.

I, in turn, told Dag about one of those greek philosophers, the wise man that brought on the anger of those whom he saw through, and was ultimately forced to drink hemlock. Somehow the story always seemed to me to resemble the one about the carpenters son, who my brother calls Christ. But the old philosopher was a pagan, and Rome was uneasy with his teachings, these days.

Ironicly – but luckily – we were only a few miles off of the coast of Tintagel when Hawk came swooping out of thin air as we rode (if she had any other name, it was not in the human tongue). It was raining, a persistent, patient drizzle. She planted her heavy weight on my shoulder as she reached us. I almost fell off the horse under her.

She grabbed hold of my soaked cloak with her beak and tugged it, then took off again and circled over us, ever further forward as if calling us to come, and come quickly. She never usually approached anyone but Tristran at all. Dagonet looked worried, and drove his steed forward. I followed.

We rounded a bend as so often before, to find him sitting serenely in the mud, legs crossed in the manner of a tailor, face slightly lifted towards the sky and the rain. He looked almost content. His horse stood somewhat to the side, looking puzzled, and around him was strewn some four or five bodies whose mothers possibly, but no longer certainly, would have recognized them. It looked like they had been highwaymen.

He looked up at us when we came, and I saw the reason for his stillness. He was holding his left wrist in as tight a grip as he could muster. Still, rythmic bursts of red kept welling out between his fingers. The ground around him was more or less a pool. He looked pale, the dark tattoos on his cheekbones contrasting all to clearly the white skin underneath.

Dagonet looked around, before turning to his comrade, enraged. "Why in the name of all the gods did you not wait for me?!"

Tristran looked at him, and then at me. I saw his eyes brush my belly. "It would not do," was all the explanation he offered. Then he lifted the mangled arm apologetically. "I was sloppy. Made a mistake." He seemed annoyed with himself, most of all.

I looked at the corpse nearest to him, still with a rusty and rather dirty looking knife clutched in its cold hand. Its neck was twisted in a somewhat painfully looking angle. "He was not quite dead when I ...examined him."

_Examined, _I thought wildly, _What on earth is he playing at? _

And then on : _Five men._ _And he considers it a 'mistake'?!_ He smiled wistfully at me then, as if guessing my thoughts. Then he fell to the side, slowly like a young willow.

"Aw, SHIT!" I heard Dagonet curse, unsually, as he sped forward, grabbing his friends limp body and remounting amazingly fast with him in front of him, leaving me to grab the reins of Tristrans mount and get on my own as quickly as possible. I didn't have the supplies for doing anything serious about something like this here on the road. He neither. "Something to tie with, _something to tie with!" _and he streched out a hand, as if by his will alone what he needed would materialize in it. I threw him one of the ribbons I usually tied into my hair. "Use this!"

He caught it and tied it around the wounded wrist, tight as he could, before speeding off down the road, me right behind him. Hawk was crying mournfully over our heads.

That is how we reached Tintagel, and the house of Marcus Cunomorus.

_/\/\/_

_The woman is staring out across the walls of the castle, her eyes searching the moor and taking hold at the two riders racing down the hill, direction towards the narrow bridge spanning the roaring waves below; It stretches from the naked face of the cliff to the impossible island on which the castle is situated, a hundred yards at least, above the surface of the water._

_The sound of the waves as they ram the cliffs is persistent here. _

_Thug. Thug._

_It has rained, but it has stopped now. Her hair is caught in the wind and momentarily streaks across her face. It is the color of copper, wavey and very long. She removes it impatiently, scrutinizing the newcomers with grey eyes, narrowed against the gale. Down the hill they race, now getting nearer to the bridge, a big, burly man and a slight woman, a third horse in tow. _

_A riderless horse... by the Gods, there is one more? The big man is carrying someone in front of him. A man of slender build, the back of his head lolling against the shoulder of his friend. He is wounded?_

_(The wheel of fortune turns. Tick. Tick.)_

_The woman calls out to her maid then, her head not turning. Her voice is soft, slightly deep, a melodic alt._

"_Branwain. Go and fetch my herbs and needles. " She looks down to the gate, ensuring herself that the guard is letting the people in, before she gathers her skirts and heads off towards the Hall of her house, strides long and effective. "And put the kettle on. The big one we use for laundering."_

_The maid bows her head. "Yes, mistress Ysolde."_


	3. Ysolde

_**Usual disclaimers apply. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**/\/\/**_

_**Ch. 3 - Ysolde.**_

_Dagonet relates : _

It was typical. So godsdamn typical of him. I cursed inwardly as I drove Aurelius down the hill towards the castle, cradling Tristran like a babe in front of me, hating him every second for doing this to me. _One of these days, hawkboy, your ridiculous deathwish will come true! And lucky for you, because you will not want to face me when it does!_

Aurelius momentarily stumbled on the steep hill, and regained his footing. I named him after an emperor I once heard of, who was a philosopher and hated war. It seemed fitting. I hate war, almost as much as Galahad, or even more, I am willing to bet. Yet I never seem to be doing anything else. I sensed Muirgeirn behind us, somewhere in the periphery of my vision, and just had the time to thank the gods that she had managed to follow, so I wouldn't be facing the responsibility of having abandoned a pregnant woman in the middle of a ruined highway ambush. Then we were at the gate and I roared at them to open up, because we were in a hurry and the aid of Marcus' wife was needed.

_At least the rain has stopped._ Funny what you find yourself thinking, times like these. They opened the gate, and I raced into the courtyard, the hooves of Aurelius echoing off the walls and the poor bastards jumping for sweet life to get out of my way before I pulled his rein in and got off, getting Tristrans limp frame loaded across my shoulders, carrying him inside on the instructions of a flustered Roman guardsman. _How can he be this light? This cannot be right..._

Inside the old ring walls, in the heart of the Tintagel island, stood a Roman villa, of the expensive kind. How they had managed to build it out on this godsforsaken rock, I had absolutely no idea, neither did I care. It was an odd place, the shelter of the walls combined with the warm climate in these parts making it possible for a strange, gnarled tree to grow in the southernmost corner. It wasn't a very big tree, but it stood there, basking in the sun, a surreal comment to the situation. I was to learn later that it was an olive tree, from whose fruits the oil that the Romans greatly favor are made. They use it in foodstuffs. Ysolde would also teach me that it can be used for healing purposes. Mixed with the correct herbs it can protect damaged or burnt skin.

I burst into the hall of the Roman house, looking around wildly for help. Muirgeirn was behind me, and, I am ashamed to admit in hindsight, a good deal more collected than I.

In front of us stood what I learned to be the Lady of the House, Marcus' wife Ysolde.

She stood at the fire when we came in, a statuesqe woman with milk white skin. I don't know if 'beautiful' is the right word to use of her. Suffice to say she just had a presence that almost beat the breath from my body. Such was her calm that it was contagious and I carefully edged Tristran from my shoulders and carried him to where she was standing. There was a place for him to lie, and I put him there, noticing that already her healing implements were laid out, and needles of yew were ready for piercing and sewing together whatever cut would need it, as if she had been expecting us.

She threw one look at me and Muirgeirn, and then at the patient as he lay there, dead pale, and then she asked me :

"What is his name?"

"Tristran," I said, surprised, and she nodded and put a white hand tenderly on his cheek as if examining if he was still with us, her thumb gently stroking the tattoo on it. She had strong, slender hands with long fingers. "Tristran." She called softly, and then stroked a bloodsoaked braid behind his ear. "I am Ysolde. I will help you."

His eyes opened slightly at that, and he stared up at her like from some place far away. Muirgeirn made a worried sound beside me.

Ysolde stood there returning his gaze for a few moments. I got the oddest feeling. Rightly I ought to be impatient, to usher her into working to save my friend, yet it seemed as if everything was suddenly as it should be. The moment stretched on and on as she stood there, needle in one hand and the other cradling the face of our scout. Then she bent over his wrist, and put a kind of white moss directly on the wound. "This will keep it from turning bad," she whispered, and he kept looking at her and lay still as she sat down, bent forward and started sewing, small and methodic stings closing the deep gash in his wrist, while I stared amazed. There was a trust in his eyes the same as a horse keeping still while you remove a parasite or cleanse an angry wound, knowing that what you do is for its own good. I had never seen him like that. He was observing, with interest, as she pierced the tender flesh of his lower arm, something that most certainly cannot have been painless. Then again, I never understood that mans relationship with pain.

When she was finished, she handed him a cup of a certain herbal concoction, evidently designed to help him get blood in his body quickly, so he would not lie there and die on us. He obediently drank all of it. Then he laid down and closed his eyes, seeming content.

She turned towards us, and as her eyes landed on Muirgeirns belly, she made a small exasperated sound not unlike the one Arthur makes when he finds he has been neglecting something.

"Please, Lady Muirgeirn, sit down."

It did not seem to matter that she had just probably made sure our companion would survive. She had her maid bring us something to drink and some chicken soup, and I sat down as well, staying in the background as she and Muirgeirn started making polite conversation, something which has never been my strong point.

I looked in stead to the bedding behind her and the dark figure on it. At several points I thought I could see the glinting of his eyes there, though what he was watching I could not readily judge.

I was just relieved he was still there.

_Thank the Gods for that hawk, _I thought.

I remember vividly the time Tristran told me about Hawk. It is probably the one time he shared any kind of personal information with me, yet he told it all matter-of-factly, as if it was no big deal, the answer to a question posed by me at the time.

We sat at the wall one summer evening, while it was still light. We were still very young. I believe we had been in Britain for maybe two years. He still told stories now and again, back then, if you urged him a bit, though his flute had been broken on the way here.

We sat on the wall itself, legs dangling in free air, me watching the long low shadows of the afternoon light, he some way away from me, whittling away on something or other as usual.

Hawk came, and settled in a brush of air between us, and for a moment I was startled. She is so big, and her talons and beak are long and sharp.

Tristran looked at me sharply, with those eyes that seemed old, already then.

"Do not be afraid of Hawk," he said, no, demanded.

I did not answer, partly out of confusion, partly because my heart still sat in my throat from her sudden appearance. He looked at me more gently then.

"Do not be afraid." He repeated.

"Easy for you to say!" I protested. "She is huge!" and bemused, I stared at the yellow-green light in the trees, out in the Woad-forest beginning some hundred yards off from the Wall.

"Where does she come from anyway?" I muttered.

Tristran threw me a sideways look, as if to determine whether I was really interested or not.

Then he shrugged, and told me the story :

"When we were born, my mother named me this name. It means, ''He who kills whom he loves' or 'He who travels with sorrow'. She was a bit angry with me, I think, because apparently I had taken more than my share of the twined spirit, when I lay in her belly with my sister.

Tuva was born very weak, and as we grew up, she also proved to be one of those who are so in touch with the spiritworld, so that they are not quite present here in the world of humans. She would laugh at things the others could not see, or she would get angry and throw a fit, for reasons invisible to normal eyes.

She could not walk very well, but she was also very frail. So I carried her around with me, on my horse, all the time. We had our own language, which the other people of the tribe did not understand. She never learned to speak the language of the tribe. The only thing she could say, which others would understand, was my name, Tristran.

The other children were afraid of Tuva, because she would drool, or roll her eyes. They did not realize, that sometimes, she did it just to frighten them. Because it was funny. We were often left to ourselves, and in the summer I would put her on the horse with me, and we would ride out from the summer-camp and find a place with tall grass, where we could watch the sky, and the birds of prey flying overhead. She told me many stories, and she told me all about the birds, all in our language.

But winters came, and they were hard, and sometimes Tuva had strange seizures when she would fall to the ground, and be lost to the world. The spirits were calling her name so loudly, that it was wearing her out, young as she was. One winter, after she had so been tormented by them, she refused to eat.

Our mother was devastated, but Tuva told _me, _that it was because she was tired of hearing all the forefathers calling for her always to come home again. She had been refusing them, she said, only for my sake, because she loved me more. But now, it was hurting too much. So together, we devised a plan.

That night, I put on all the clothes that I had. Then I took her out from the yurt, when our parents were asleep. I was still a boy, but I am strong, and she was very light.

I did not go to our horse, but carried her myself, out from the winter-camp, and far far away over the plains. There was snow, but I knew how to tread on it, so we did not sink in. I walked with her for some hours, until we reached one of the places where she had most enjoyed to be, when she told me of the gamebirds and their flight, of which she had always been envious and longing. There was nothing marking the place, but we knew it well. I put her down there.

Take my clothes off me, Tristran, she said. I did so, marvelling at the strange, unearthly beauty of her thin, white limbs. She did not look like the rest of us. Her body was soon trembling with the cold, but she did not seem to mind. Now, she said, braid my hair, Tristran.

I did, taking great care to separate her dark brown locks, the color of the steppe in autumn. We have the same color of hair. I did all the braids usually reserved for grown women. The one showing the number of childbirths (I made five), the one showing marriage and the warrior-braid, which is different from the one the males have.When I was finished, she was so beautiful that I was sure that the spirits would come and steal her right away. I felt briefly afraid of this thought, but she laid her head back in the snow. Now, she said, watch the stars with me, Tristran.

I did so, and we stayed there the whole night. When dawn arrived, I saw that she had gone home. Then I rose, and carried her back to the tribe. It was hard because she had turned stiff from the cold, but I did it. On the way back I felt her spirit lodging itself firmly in my chest. She told me of the spiritworld and showed me visions all the way home. At some point I was afraid I would be lost, but she guided me, until I stood again at the entrance to our familys yurt, and showed my parents that Tuva had gone home.

Now, usually only the very old of the tribe can make such a decision for themselves, and this is preferable. Still, my mother and father seemed to understand, though they wept.

For some days, I lay with a fever, and did not eat, so as to not have her spirit in my chest grow fat from the food, and choke us both. On the third day I rose and ate some of the raw heart of a bear, which my father and the men had recently shot, and he had saved some of it for me.

I immediately vomited, along with a few drops of blood, as it should be.

Now I no longer felt sad, though it was very strange to not feel the weight of her body in my arms when we rode. The other children still avoided me, even more so than before. They must have seen the shadow of her by my side.

But spring came, and I decided to go out and watch the birds for myself, because maybe she would meet me out there. Before the tribe broke camp to go north, to the summer-grounds, I went to the place where she had gone home, and I found there the egg of a hawk, rolled from the nest somewhere, but for the time being kept warm by the rays of the sun. As I closed in, it began to hatch, and Hawk came out. She looked at me, turning her head askance, and made small sounds, and I immediately recognized the language. I took her home with me, and the emptiness in my chest-cavity was gone."

And that seemed to be the end of the story, just like that. He reached out a hand, and with a finger nuzzled the huge bird under its beak. Her plumage bristled slightly around her neck at that, then she gave a small sound, and hopped along the parapet to settle some way away from us, on one of her usual places. Tristran continued his whittling project. And I was silent, thinking of the story he had just shared with me, as plainly as if he had been telling me of the other day at the training grounds.

Years later, just prior to our encounter with Ysolde of Tintagel, I would tell Muirgeirn, that Hawk was the only woman Tristran had ever loved.

And I would mean it.

_/\/\/_

_Muirgeirn relates :_

It was lucky that she was there when we came. After doing whatever she could for Tristran, she had us sit down and fed, so hospitable and gentle a hostess that I found myself wondering whether we had really arrived in the messy, undignified manner which we had.

She had the most lovely and likeable manners I have ever come across, an even balance and a culturedness that made me wonder why I had not ever visited her before, of my own accord. She had been to the Holy Isle a small number of times, from which we knew of each others person, but had I known exactly how well educated she was, I would certainly have visited her before this day.

It couldn't be much company she received out here, a daughter of an Irish chieftain and married to Marcus, a Roman thrice her age and with the usual overprotectiveness the Romans have of their wives, as Dagonet had once so concisely commented upon.

It couldn't be easy to thus be sentenced from a life as a free being to the bower of a villa on a rock island. _What a sacrifice to bring to those one loves, _I wondered. I knew that this marriage had been a vital part of the peace negotiations between Rome and the Irish. Marcus' family was among the most powerful of Britain.

Ysolde was thus impeccably clad in the Roman fashion, and overall appeared to be so_ civilized, _in the Roman understanding of the word, that I for a moment wondered how in the world she had managed to _not_ rub Tristran the wrong way during her work on his wounds. And yet, deep below her smile there was a sharp edge to her, a demand for privacy around her person which seemed familiar from being around our scout.

_Apples can look different on the outside, _I thought. _But inside be the same color._

I quickly found myself talking happily to her, and sent a silent compliment to the clarity of my brother. She would indeed be a valuable ally, much more so than her husband. But when I looked at her radiant smile, and noticed how comfortable I felt in her presence, how easily my guard went down, it struck me : _Or a very very dangerous foe._

I fell into silence at that thought, and she just sat opposite me then, the shadow of a smile on her lips. No wonder that old Marcus kept her hidden away out here. She could easily not only catch the attention of every man in Londinium, but if Marcus was not careful she would overshadow him in the spheres of diplomacy and politics as well.

That is, if the Romans had been in the habit of listening to their women.

Her husband was in Londinium at the moment, but he would be home shortly, she assured me, taking care to make it seem like an offhand remark, as if none of us knew better than that the birth of my child was the only reason why my brother had sent me here.

_Then again, maybe it is not pure folly? _And I played back in my mind how she had cared for Tristran. My aunt, the Lady of the Lake, had expressed some worry for my small size when it came to giving birth, and much as I tried to push the thought away, I myself did not feel as much worried, as downright horrified.

She leaned forward towards me at that, grabbing my hand in her own warm and strong one, and nodded softly, a very real tenderness in her eyes assuring me of her good intentions.

"You will have a healthy babe, mylady. We shall see to that."

A sharp cry echoed from below the ceiling then. I looked up.

From one of the small windows just below the roof, Hawk came floating down. She settled on the form of her beloved, her beak worrying one of his braids inquisitively, as if to see if he was better now. He shifted slightly and I could see the reflection of the fire in his eyes as he looked at her adoringly. They communed like that for a spell.

Then Hawk turned her head and looked at Ysolde, who had been watching the spectacle with interest, quickly turning aside my fears that she would have been intimidated by the presence of the animal in her house.

"Hey there my sweet..." she reached a hand forward with disregard, something not even I would have done whilst not wearing at least a very solid leather glove. Beside me, Dagonet was staring transfixed.

Hawk hopped along and settled on the arm of the finely cut Roman chair. Then she tested Ysoldes fingers, nibbling softly at them with her sharp beak. The two looked each other in the eye and a short staring contest ensued.

Then Hawk seemed to be satisfied. She hopped closer, briefly took off, and settled herself at the back of the chair in which Ysolde rested.

The three of us looked in surprise, but Hawk seemed to have her mind settled on this, and finally Ysolde seemed to let it go at that. She turned towards me and Dagonet again, offering us quarters for sleep and refreshment.

"It is getting late," she said, "And you have been travelling long and seen your share of drama today. Go with Branwain, Muirgeirn, and she wil find you a room, which will be at your disposition for as long as you will be here. Dagonet," she turned towards the big knight next to me, "you can go with Damh here. Don't worry," she interrupted, as Dagonet was starting to protest. "I shall stay here and watch over your friend. There is little more any of us can do for him anyway at this point."

I saw Dagonet mulling this over for a moment, before deciding to comply.

As we both followed the named servants out of the big hall, he to the right and I to the left, I looked back and saw Ysolde leaning back in her chair, the glow of the fire warming her skin and reflecting in her eyes. Hawk sat over her, nuzzling her hair as if she was an old aquaintance.

I shook my head in wonder and followed Branwain, eager to get a chance to rest.

_**/\/\/**_

_**Authors note : **_

_**For more on the braids of Tristrans tribe, read 'Of Tattoos and Braids' by dickonfan , who so wonderfully permitted me to incorporate what she 'found out' about him, in my stories.**_

_**Tristrans story in this chapter draws inspiration from two short stories : One of Jørn Riel's Tall Tales from East-Greenland, and a story called 'Walimai' by Isabel Allende (part of the Eva Luna short story collection). Also a nod to the character of 'Nobody' in Jim Jarmusch's movie 'Dead Man'.**_

_**As far as I remember the legend, the name Tristran/Tristan (or Drust, as was the oldest form) really means something along the lines of 'sorrow'.  
Interestingly, the word for 'sad' in Danish is also'trist' (and pronounced more or less that way).**_


	4. Birth

_**Usual disclaimers apply. No copyright Infringement intended. Hooray, the document manager works again!**_

_**/\/\/**_

_**Chapter 4 - Birth.**_

_Dagonet relates:_

It took some time of course, for the wound to heal, though I must say that I have never seen healing of such perfection, and so fast. I cannot say what caused it, though in hindsight I might have an inkling. It is known amongst healers – maybe more so amongst the real healers, as opposed to us patchers of the battlefield – that the true healing comes from the wounded himself, that it can be helped along by a skilled hand, but even more so by the right application of presence.

That is really the best word I can find to use about it. Presence. Maybe that was what she did.

It did not suit him well to lay idle like that, so he started moving about again the day after next. After all, it wasn't his legs that were hurt, and we all more or less forcefully fed him with soup, so as to help his body create blood to replace that which lay now in the mud on the road from Tintagel. He put up with us patiently, though maybe it was really _her_ who had such a special gift for making him trust her. She certainly had a way with him, that I cannot rightly describe. It was not that he turned into a sheep like I have seen so many men (for example Bors) do, when put under the right kind of pressure from a woman. Women never truly interested Tristran any more than the general opinion of his surroundings interested him, though I suspect he may have complied with the priestesses during Beltaine celebration, much as he professed to have done when the question of Muirgeirns child came about.

But it wasn't that. It wasn't the Bors-sheep thing. It was just as if they understood each other. They treated each other with polite distance, indeed they barely even spoke. Yet it seemed that they just had a natural friendship from the very moment she put her yew needle in his skin on that wet, windy afternoon. I was amazed, yet I gained from the glares he shot me that he didn't consider comments on it to be necessary. So I shut up.

She made him happy though, that much was clear. Too bad she is married, I caught myself thinking, more than once during our stay at Tintagel, though without really knowing why. It somehow always was out of the question to consider Tristran as a married, or in any way romantically involved man.

While he was recovering, Marcus came home, and I found him to be as removed from reality as are most of that tiresome race, save maybe Arthur (who is, importantly, halfblood woad). Muirgeirn, of course, treated him with utmost respect, though I had gotten to know her well enough during our travel to spot the cold in her looks when he treated Ysolde the foolish way that Romans do. Like she was his child or his servant, and not his wife and future bearer of his children. _They will either be terribly good or terribly annoying children, _I thought, secretly pitying the poor woman, even though Marcus seemed to be treating her fairly, at least as Roman husbands go.

But Ysolde took it all with grace. She had a way of obediently doing whatever her husband asked, that served her well. This way, she made sure that Marcus always thought the suggestions or ideas for the running of things, were his own.

Marcus wasn't an unsympathetic man, nor even bad company. He was just very old fashioned, as are men of the days before Rome started to really look tattered in her corners. It is as if they think that their ways or even they as persons, will live forever unchanged. I cannot think of anything more boring. My aunt, the mother of Bors, used to put it very aptly back when we were boys : '_the wind moves over the plains, and takes man and beast with it. The land renews itself and where you have trod, only grass will grow.'_

Of course we were but big boys then, and didn't care to listen. But I still hear her and my own mother as they wept, on the day we left for Britain. _The wind takes both man and beast with it..._

"It is truly a fine piece of work you are doing for Rome up at the Wall," Marcus said, when Muirgeirn and I had informed him of Arthurs request, supported by the intelligence Tristan could provide.

Marcus were nodding at us as if we were sons making him proud. "I really wish that I could spare more men to help you out. Alas, I can't. But truly, your deeds are spawning legends in Londinium. I recently heard a wonderful ballad of... what was it dear? I retold it when last i came from the city didn't I?" and Ysolde merely smiled and nodded, surely he had, surely. He sat thinking for a while, and then brightened : "Now I remember. It is of your brother-in-arms, Gawain I think the name is, no? Yes, Gawain and the green warrior." He chuckled, "Though I am sure that those green arms did not grow back after he chopped them off, did they?".

It was supposed to be a joke. Muirgeirn laughed icily. It struck me that maybe she was not as good a choice for an emissary as her brother had hoped. This guy simply rubbed her the wrong way in too many ways. Also, she had the interests of her priestesshood to consider, which did not necessarily coincide in any way with those of the Christian world, of which Marcus was a part.

Tristran, however, had listened to it all with unusual interest from his corner at the fire.

"They did not grow back, no." And the scout smiled in satisfaction, no doubt thinking of the event with the humor that only he can find in something as ludicrous and futile as that.

It had been a supposed chieftain of the woads giving us trouble, first wanting to negotiate but then starting to demand this and that from Arthur. He had been clad in green, like an odd kind of Merlin. Perhaps he was an outcast of the tribes. Really, the guy couldn't have been right in the head, because at one point he seemed to think that the negotiations were over, and jumped to strike at Arthur, surrounded as he was by all of us.

Gawain, in his typical, bored leonine manner, had struck out his paw, axe in it, and chopped the guys head off.

It had all been a tragic and somewhat depressing event, and how it could have reached Londinium as a tale of true heroism was beyond me. Even more flabberghasted was I, when being retold the recounting Marcus had heard there, of an apparent contest between the two in which the green warriors head grew forth again, whereupon he claimed it his turn ot have a go at Gawains.

Tristran, in the background, were silently shaking with laughter, truly a rare sight. But the story was absurd enough for it.

However, it seemed to be Marcus' final answer, though what the garrison was needed for way down here was anyones guess. The saxons had been laying relatively low the last years, and anyway they always came from the north and west rather than the southeast.

I was in a foul mood when Tristran and I were preparing to go back to Arthur with that message. But Muirgeirn reassured me. "I shall talk to Ysolde," she said, "and make her help us." She smiled mischievously, "If not, I am sure that Hawk will persuade her." Indeed, Hawk seemed to have a penchant for the Lady of Tintagel which almost rivalled her more wellknown love of her master – if ever Tristran could have been said to be her master.

I smiled back at her._ She really is an amazing woman, Arthurs sister,_ I thought.

"Give my best to my brother," she said. And then, after a spell of thought, "I shall send word when he has become uncle, and I shall consistently work at softening Marcus, enlisting the help of his wife if I can. If there is anything, let him send Tristran here... or you." And she smiled at me then, a dazzling array of white teeth in her tiny dark face, and I felt peculiar.

"I shall, mylady," I muttered stupidly, before mounting Aurelius. Tristran was already waiting, Hawk circling overhead, and his look aimed at Marcus and his wife, inscrutable as always.

We rode north.

_/\/\/_

_Muirgeirn relates:_

It was clear that the answer of Marcus would not be satisfactory. As Artorius had explained to me before I left for Tintagel, I was not sent there to ask Marcus for the garrison, but to make sure that he sent it, whatever was necessary to reach that end.

Little had I foreseen the many unknowables which would intervene with my plans upon the arrival at Tintagel.

First, there was the damaging of the scout of course, but he was quickly mended, better, in fact, than we could have hoped for when Dagonet dragged him from the mud on the road.

More importantly, there was the whole way of Marcus Cunomorus. He was a citizen of Rome to the core, friendly, hospitable, and so sure of all the ways of Rome and of himself as a Roman, that it was impossible to talk sense to him. He even once patted me on the cheek and paternally answered my arguing with the overbearing 'I don't expect a woman to have understanding of such matters, dear.' I was becoming less and less sure that it had been the right idea to send me to this man, intelligent wife or no. How this wife, a woman of the Irish tribes, were managing him without going completely insane, eluded me.

Yes. Ysolde was the third unknowable. For some reason that I did not understand, she started working at her husband in her subtle ways to get him to dispatch the reserves, without me even asking her confidence or her help. She seemed to grant it to me as a natural ally, her reasons for choosing so remaining elusive to me, until some time later.

It occurred to me while I was pregnant and closing in on childbearing, and when I saw it I laughed at my own blindness. _Really, Muirgeirn, you have been neglecting your training._

He showed up one late december evening, Artorius had sent him again of course. It was dark and bitterly cold. The waves were thundering underneath us with more fervor than usual. All in all, it was a strange sensation, and one that took long to get used to, always being able to feel the reverb of the waves in the rock underneath your feet. Tonight they really did not leave anything for later.

Hawk arrived first, circling in through the windows beneath the ceiling, swooping down over our heads as we sat spinning, landing at Ysoldes spinning wheel and loudly protesting as she was whipped off towards the floor by the turning. She ruffled her feathers and stared at us contemptuously, before elevating herself to the less moving wool keeper on the spinning wheel.

Ysolde abruptly dropped her thread and stared at the bird as if seeing a ghost.

It could not be because she was scared – that did not rhyme with the last time she and Hawk had interacted. Surely, the bird had surprised her, but even so, I found her reaction slightly peculiar.

He entered the hall some fifteen minutes later, soaked and with the manic pleasure in his face that always, as I had learned, came from spending a good long time alone, outside walls and confinements. It was a long way from Hadrians Wall to here. He must have been enjoying every foot of it.

She rose, and looked at him evenly. It occurred to me that she was tall for a woman, though he still surpassed her with around half a head. They looked equals as they stood there, the intruder and the intruded upon, and me as a fly on the wall witnessing something which could have been a battle of wills, though what it was about was anyones guess. These two had never met each other before the day we dragged him into her house, bleeding all over the floor. Of that I was sure. But they acted that day, as well as now, like they were on familiar terms, and their meeting just a formality. Something which was necessarily going to happen, sooner or later. And yet, they seemed opposite. The feral hunter, tall and hard and with the movements of a predator, and she, a statue of marble clad in green and the Irish gold of her father on her wrists and neck. She would never be intimidated by him.

"I come for the answer of Marcus," he growled, looking at her in a way that made me think _the answer of Marcus or that of his wife? And who is coming? You, on Artorius' behalf, or on your own?_

She stared back at him, undaunted. "He answers yes. He will send the garrison within the week." She paused for a space, then added, "You have my word."

I succeeded in not dropping my jaw, but only just.

Marcus was not even home, he was in Londinium, as I had quickly learned he was much of the time. And the last time Ysolde had probed into the matter of the garrison, she had been explicitly told that it stayed in Exeter.

Hadrians Wall was not in Exeter. And I knew the Roman commanders would not listen to her. Still, she stood there, giving this dark hunter, a stranger, her word that it would be so. How was she going to manage this? How was she going to persuade a stubborn old mule of a husband, when he was not even home to be persuaded?!

Mulling over these questions, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my lower back. As if following the rythm of the waves underneath us.

And sure enough, the next thug of the waves was followed by the sensation of a thousand knives plunging into my belly. I bent on the middle, curling together, and gasped.

Ysolde looked at me, and then called for Branwain.

What became of Tristran I never remembered. It all turned into pain after that.

/\/\/

_The woman makes her way down the stairs with heavy movements. She has been up all night, and all day, and now it is evening again. She looks a mess, her eyes rimmed from lack of sleep, her hair bundled up in a knot from which sweaty strands tumble disorderly into her face._

_Her dress is covered in blood, though not her own. She has been crying, but hiding it well. She has been strong. Now she is exhausted._

_She enters the hall, her hall, only half expecting the fire to be on at all._

_It is. A figure sits beside it, in her chair, a hand under its chin and staring into the fires. Obviously the tender of that same fire._

_The man looks up when she enters, as if he has been just sitting there waiting for her to come down that very stair. There is no demand in his eyes, no special question, just the sense that he has been expecting her._

"_She... is asleep now. I think she will live." She staggers towards him in a kind of drunk state, dizzy from the lack of sleep. "It is a boy." She looks at the man sadly. "Congratulations."_

_He looks slightly surprised, but then smiles, a crooked smile._

"_You can congratulate the father, if ever you find out who he is."_

_The woman lifts an eyebrow, looking at him with new apprehension._

_The man rises then, and goes to her. Taking her hand, he leads her to the place where she has tended him, not six months hence. He sits down in its corner and looks at her, slightly demanding._

"_Now, you must sleep."_

_At that she cries from exhaustion, and collapses onto the sheeps hides. Half-crazed and delirious she crawls over them, closing the distance and landing in a kind of pile, her cheek against his collarbone. She registers the scent of leather, of horse and underneath those...she is asleep. He wraps his long arms around her, looking down at her swollen, sadlooking face, his own as inscrutable as always, but eyes raw emotion._

_Hawk swoops in the window then, and lands on a post above._

_For the next hours, none of the three move._


	5. Rape

_**Usual disclaimers apply. No copyright infringement intended, etc.**_

_**/\/\/**_

_**Ch. 5 – Rape**_

_The woman is dreaming. She is back in Ireland, running up and down the beach, following the onmarch and withdrawal of the waves. She is fourteen, tall and strong of her age. Her mother calls her from further up the beach to come in. The girl ignores it for as long as she can, being more interested in the sheashells emerging when the fine sand is washed away by the tide. She stands still then for a moment, feeling the chilly water swallowing her feet up to her ankles, softer than even her dark blue woollen cloak at home. When the waves withdraw again, she looks down to find her feet disappeared some way into the sand._

"_Ysolde!" the girls mother is starting to sound a bit impatient. Rolling her eyes, the girl obeys the call._

_The dream changes. They are inside now, and Mother is looking at her coldly, that practical, closed look which the girl knows is only on her face when she is hurting and trying to hide it._

"_He is rich, Ysolde, and very influential amongst the Romans. You will not find a better match."_

"_He can wipe his arse with his money!" _

_Queen Fiona looks at her icily. "You WILL marry him."_

"_NEVER!"_

_She throws a clay dish on the floor in anger, breaking it. How can her mother stand there and talk of... of selling her like she is a breeding mare?!_

_Her mother does something unexpected then. Queen Fionas lower lip trembles slightly, and suddenly she sits down and hides her face in her hands._

_The girl is shocked. Her mother has always taught her bravery. She has never before cried, never used that weapon against anyone. _

_Queen Fiona looks up at her through swollen, tearful eyes, reaching out and grabbing the girl, pressing her against her chest. She lulls her, stroking her hair desperately, all the while whispering words that slowly enters the girls mind, shattering the child within._

"_Ysolde, the Romans are just across that sea. They have not come here yet, save to trade. But... but they have ships Ysolde. If they should suddenly decide to come here..."_

_The girls eyes grow dark then, dead as the eyes of the fish when she has so many times caught them and slammed their heads against the rock._

_Slowly she turns and leaves the house, tracing again her way to the beach. She stands there in the tide again, looking now over the sea as if expecting to see the Roman ships there, already coming. She feels her feet once again sinking into the sand, and wonders. If she just stands still long enough, will the beach eventually swallow her up?_

_Less than a year after, on a ship loaded with her dowry of Irish gold, she sails for Wales and the awaiting Romans who will take her to Cornwall, to be the wife of Marcus Cunomorus._

_She wakes then, because the support underneath her cheek is moving. Big metal rings sown onto a leather coat-of-arms._

_She lifts her head and sees that it is the man she has fallen asleep against. He has moved, slightly, to be more comfortable. Now he looks at her as if feeling guilt for having so woken her up. _

_The mother and child, she immediately remembers. He will need his mother. Has she awoken? I must waste no time..._

_She quickly rises fully, brushing her skirts, finding them ruined with caked dried blood. _

"_What time is it?"_

_Liquid eyes looking back at her. "Noon."_

_/\/\/_

_Muirgeirn relates:_

I am not sure I would have survived that birth, had it not been for Ysolde. I don't remember much, and I figure I must have at some point gone totally incoherent, leaving her alone there to try and save both me and my son. How she managed to do so, I did not realize until around noon, when I came to. I found myself feeling awfully limp and weak, but with a clear mind. It was when I tried to rise in my bed that I felt the pain. A stabbing sensation and the muscles in my stomach refusing to cooperate to elevate me. I looked down my body and at first did not see anything. Then, feeling my way with my hands, my fingers suddenly brushed a bandaging, laid around my hips, herbs and grey moss under it. It was not until some weeks later, when she took it off me, that I got the chance to see the scar after the long, precise cut, made horisontally just above my womanhood. She had cut him out of me. And still I lived.

Branwain entered my room as I lay there groping with the magnitude of it all, carrying some bread, some berries and a warm herbal drink with her, the latter of which I was promptly ordered to ingest. She smiled in relief when she saw me, and assured me that her mistress was just on the stairs to see me, as soon as Branwain had helped her wash and dress. She had been oversleeping a bit today, Branwain laughed, what with the birth and all. The young woman seemed to trust her mistress so, that she did not even seem to find the whole thing dramatic. Certainly, if anyone could cut a child out of a woman, and still make sure that woman lived, it would be her mistress Ysolde.

"But you must lie still for a while, to make sure the wound heals in the right way." she cautioned, just as Ysolde entered, smiling radiantly as always and carrying in her arms a small bundle. Branwain fussed about her, berating her the way servants do, that she had not waited for her to come and help her refresh herself.

_She looks tired, _I thought, but then everything was pushed aside as my son was lain in my arms. He was big and healthy, eyes wide awake and staring at me inquisitively.

"I had to give him goat milk yesterday," Ysolde said. "But see now, if you cannot feed him yourself." And with her and Branwains help I got into a sitting position and arranged, feeling myself smiling as I laid him to my breast.

"What will you call him?" she asked me, and I shook my head, not yet knowing an answer to that question.

She sat down at the window and waited then, while we got to know each other. When his hunger was satisfied, she cleaned and changed him for me, finally laying him in a small childs cradle right next to my bed. "There," she said, "at least it is being put to good use."

The remark puzzled me, but then she turned and looked at me again, her usual disarming smile in place. "Now," she said, "I hate to bring up such subjects right here with you still in your childbearing bed, but I am affraid that time is shortening if I am to keep the promise I so rashly made the other night."

"The other night?" I asked. _How long was I in labor?_

She answered my thoughts : "You were in labor for a full night and a full day and half the night again, Muirgeirn. And you went incoherent shortly before dawn, yesterday. I think it must make a full day and night, of which you have no memory." She smiled tenderly. "You are a grand woman of spirit, but not of body, my priestess. It almost became the death of you. I advise that you satisfy yourself with one fine son, and take precautions from now on, be it during your office or leisure."

I felt the exhaustion again. _She is right. I will not give birth again and live._

"Advice well given, " I answered slowly. "I shall heed it. But I think I remember now, to what you refer." And I felt my brow furrowing as I tried to assess the situation. "How come you were so quick to answer on behalf of your husband? He is in Londinium. How will you persuade him when he is not there to hear your words?"

"I got a message from there yesterday, that he is coming home. I did not tell you, as it was just ordinary household business, that I should know he would come and prepare for his arrival." She shrugged. "As for the persuasion, I am sure dear Marcus will be reasoned with."

She said all this with apparent trust and respect for the man, but the woman was planning something. I could feel it.

_She ignores my first question_, I noticed.

"You do not have a husband, Muirgeirn." She suddenly stated, changing subject. Then, looking to my son. "Did you conceive at the Beltaine fires?" I nodded.

"I do not mean to be too bold, " she said, "But who by? I understood that it was not of Tristrans doing after all?"

_Aha, so he told her as much. How come? _

I shook my head. "And it wasn't. But I am affraid that my office do not always permit me to speak freely of such tings."

But I found my mind racing. All seemed to be questions with this woman!

She nodded in understanding of my last statement, then looked out the window. It was snowing outside. "I was originally trained to become a priestess at Bruigh na Boine." she mumbled, seemingly more to herself than to anyone else.

_And in stead, _I answered her inside my heart, _you were made a symbol of status for an old man._

I felt sorry for her. It must have shown in my face, because suddenly she took on that hard, closed quality again. "All good and well," she said. "How well do you feel, mylady? Can you eat? It will help your healing if you can get yourself to do so already."

She furrowed her brow. "It is too cold up here now. We could light a fire, but it would still leave you and your son very alone and you would be bored. Let me see." And without further ado, she pulled aside my blankets and examined my bandage with careful hands. Se seemed to be considering, and then reached a decision.

"Branwain," she said to the maiden, who had been busily trying to feed me berries and bread inbetween conversation, "Go and fetch the Lady Muirgeirns associate."

Branwain went, and we waited. Then Tristran came.

"Be careful!" Ysolde warned, and he was, lifting me as if I was a newborn lamb, and carrying me downstairs, to the warmth and the company of the fireplace and the hall. I am not a very big woman, but I was still surprised. _He is stronger than he looks, that one._

Ysolde followed with my little son, and she and Branwain installed the two of us there, making sure that I was comfortable.

Tristran made himself scarce as soon as he had put me down in the hall, evidently tired of being indoors. He did not say where he went, but I was relatively confident he would return. After all, he still had to carry north not only the news of my son, but also, I hoped, news of reinforcements.

Ysolde positioned herself at her spinning wheel, and stomped it to life. Soon it was turning, the thread racing past my eyes and making me dizzy. It was as if it twisted as a snake where her fingers were moulding it.

Then she started issuing orders :

"Branwain, go and tell Gwyn to slaughter the last lamb for tonight. I want it cooked with wine and garlic and thyme and olive oil, and I want dates with fish sauce for afters." I listened with surprise as she continued, sending her maids and servants skipping out her hall, as if preparing a banquet worthy of Ambrosius of Londinium himself.

"Damh," she ushered, "You will go to the cellar and bring up five bottles of the ones brought from Tuscany. And I am telling you," she warned, "If I hear anything of you assigning yourself as tester of their quality, I will have you whipped with your own belt!" The poor sod skittered off, nothing but bows and humility.

Branwain returned from the kitchen, and received new orders : "Branwain. Warm some more water for me, and put musk oil in it. Also prepare the white gown, the one he brought home when he was in Rome. I know it is ludicrous, but we will just have to put more on the fire. And Branwain," she added as the maiden was striding off briskly to do her will, "you will sleep down at your mothers tonight."

I thought I was starting to get the gist of her plan.

Much more impressed was I, when, late that same night she sat in that same chair, in a gown evidently made for warmer climates, an almost invisible expression of satisfaction gracing her features and a signed order for the garrison in Exeter in her hand. Somewhere out in the courtyard, the voice of her husband could be heard, happily singing, only interrupted by the astonished shrieks of one of the female servants, the unlucky woman in question shortly after passing through the hall, trying to rapidly rearrange her clothes while at the same time not dropping the basket she was carryring.

I looked from her, and then back to Ysolde, who sat watching it all stoicly, Hawk nibbling her ear. The bird had showed up earlier that same night, much to the amusement of Marcus.

There was, however, no trace of Tristran.

_Oh, brave woman, _I thought, shuddering as I heard the incoherent mumbling nearing again to the door, followed by the elderly Roman himself. He looked around the room, his swimming eyes finally landing on his wife. Upon spotting his goal, he started staggering towards her, an expectant leer on his face.

"C'mere my l-little..Irish dove..." he cooed, reaching an arm forward, his hand making grappling motions in the air, with all desirable clarity (and quite some undesirable) aimed at the bosom of the surprisingly levelheaded woman beside me.

She watched in detached pity, as he spilled the rest of the wine in the cup he held in his other hand, down his tunic.Then she rose and looked at him calmly. There was a chilly air of quiet amusement around her that seemed somehow familiar. _Where have I seen that expression before? _I mused.

"Marcus, how could you do this to me? When you know how much your wife hungers for your caress, you indulge yourself with wine so much, that I suspect that she will have to have the servants carry you snoring to your bed." She said it with mock disappointment, but he seemed to earnestly blush from shame for a moment – if it wasn't just the wine. But then he regained his resolve and walked towards her a bit more decisively, strutting like an old cockerel and with a mischievous – and, there was no denying it, tender – glint in his eyes. _He really cares for her, _I thought. _He is a caring husband, more than most Romans._ Somehow, that just made it all worse.

"I am at your service, Mylady, if you will only let me prove my worthiness of your faith in me!" he teased, and in three long steps he were beside her, his arm around her waist and happily dragging her off in the direction where I supposed either his or her chambers lay. She still had to support him quite a bit.

I looked after her and for a moment she turned, her eyes catching mine. And she gave me a slight nod, as if to say _don't worry, I'll manage him somehow._

Hawk remained on the back of Ysoldes chair for some time, watching them along with me as they disappeared up the stairs, him still singing, she still softly berating him. Then the bird cried mournfully and took off, finding one of the gaps under the roof, and exiting.

/\/\/

_The commotion in the stables stopped as Arthur entered. They all stood aside and let him pass, the few years of age difference at this point of their lives being no small factor in his elevated status compared to them. He was a man now, while they were still only on the threshold. Only Bors was older._

_The only one remaining where he was, was the boy. He was around fourteen (he didn't know his own exact age), and by the standards of his tribe a man. Here, he had discovered upon his arrival, the rules were different, especially concerning unfree men._

_Still, he was angry, though only the smoldering of his eyes betrayed just how angry._

_He did not look at Arthur when he approached, but continued wiping the blood off his peculiarly curved sword, the one he had brought with him all the way from his homeland, and which, they knew, must be a family heirloom from impossibly remote countries even further east. It was called a 'dao'. That was all he would tell them about it. _

_Arthur did not start by shouting at him. He had quickly learned that did no good. If you shouted or lost your temper with Tristran, he would just walk somewhere else, the same as a horse. Or, if he for some reason could not do that, he would just clam shut like an oyster._

_But by God, this was getting harder._

"_THAT... is just downright sick..." Gawains voice could be heard mumbling somewhere close to the door. Just outside it, the sound of Galahad actually being sick nicely seemed to support his remark._

"_Tristran."_

_The boy lifted his head in a jerk, staring intently at his young commander. _

_Arthur stood for some time, surveying the scene. There was not the tiniest trace of remorse in the boys eyes. They looked old. Eerily so._

_The young commander sighed wearily._

"_Everybody... Out."_

_Silent confusion seemed to erupt at this. Nobody moved._

"_Now!"_

_They shuffled out hastily, Lancelot being the only one lingering for a bit. A sharp glance from his commander, and he reluctantly followed the rest, leaving the two alone._

_The boy calmly regarded him now, waiting for him to speak._

"_Why did you do this?"_

_Arthur pointed to the floor. The mangled corpse of the horsebreed supervisor lay there, his dead eyes frozen in an eternal expression of excruciating pain. His male parts were removed with a cut of almost surgical precision. He had died either from the shock or the rapid blood loss. Maybe a combination. It was difficult to say._

"_He was a rapist." The boy said evenly, in his strange accent, as if this ought to be evident._

_The young man glared at him. "He was a what?!"_

"_A rapist." And the boy continued wiping his weapon, taking exquisite care to remove every stain from the dark metal._

_He threw his commander a sideways look, and saw that this did not seem to have clarified matters. He broke off his cleansing routine momentarily, to point loosely at the mutilated corpse._

"_This is the punishment for rape."_

_And then, as he saw the other only seeming to be more and more aghast, and perhaps slightly horrified, he elaborated :_

"_Rape is when you try to force a female to take a mate she does not want..."_

"_I KNOW WHAT RAPE IS!" the other shouted at him at that, earning the slightest arching of an eyebrow from the supposed recipient of his scolding, as if to say 'well, how would I know you did? One never knows with you Romans'._

_Arthur got hold of himself and sighed again._

"_Who did he rape?"_

_The boy looked down the line of horses standing in their respective places, the disapproval of their containment within this dark building obvious on his face. His eye came to rest on one of the young dappled mares at the far end, which had recently been chosen for breeding. One stallion from Cilurnum, presumably of the almost invaluable bedouin stock, had been borrowed to Caerleon and the Wall, to ennoble the Sarmatian races, of whom it was a distant relative._

"_He did WHAT...?!" Arthur looked at the mare incredulously._

_The boy shrugged. "Forcing yourself upon her or have someone else do it... it hardly matters."_

_Understanding started to dawn on Arthur at that. He seemed to recall the deceased complaining that they had trouble getting the chosen mare in heat. They had ended up having to restrain her to get the business done, the guy had joked, leering._

_The disgust was evident in the boys sharp features. _

_Arthur did not push it however, but waited for the next uttering to finish its fermenting and cross the lips of his soldier. His patience was rewarded, eventually : _

"_You take the mares to a free place, and they choose the mate they desire." The boy was explaining it patiently now, as if talking to a child. Arthur ignored the tone of voice. That was just how Tristran talked. _

"_The mares know who will sire the best foals. They choose who they want, and if the stallion is too old, or too weak, foals sired by him would be likewise. Another will usurp him. That is their tradition. That is how they keep healthy."_

_It was quite a speech, coming from that one, the young commander noted._

"_The bedouin stallion is too old for her." the boy finished, dismissively, clearly considering this the end of the argument._

_Arthur was exasperated. This boy was the most promising in skill of all of them, including himself. He was alert, he was intelligent, and he never made a spectacle of himself. But Arthur was not yet fully in command, and those who were would not have a madman running around freely, killing the stable personnel for doing their job. Even if Arthur had been in sole command by now, Tristrans life would probably have been forfeit by this act, something Arthur knew beyond doubt, that the boy was fully aware of. He felt sad, but there was no way around this._

"_Put down your weapons, Tristran." He spoke the words warily, preparing for a possible attempt at escape, something he knew could very quickly become highly dangerous to his own person, if this one felt cornered._

_The boy put his weapons down matter-of-factly, seemingly content to take the consequence of his action. Arthur, surprise in his voice, called for the others at that, more precisely he called for Bors and Dagonet. They were the strongest, and Bors was the oldest, plus those two had been the closest to being friends of this one. He hoped it would make things easier if it was them._

_They came and he sighed heavily. "Dagonet, hold him. Bors, tie him up. There is some rope over there, I believe."_

_They did it, Dagonet confused but obedient, Bors more hesitant and scowling questioningly at Arthur. The boy stood still all the while. Dagonet did not have much to do. They were leading him out, when it seemed as if he was struck by a thought, something he had forgotten to say._

"_Oh yes by the way. He also did the same thing to Vanoras little sister. Himself."_

_The visage of Bors paled in a matter of seconds. Everyone froze where they stood._

_Vanoras sister had been found in the river, some days ago. It was clear it had not been an accident. Neither had it been someone else taking her life. _

_No one understood why. Vanora had been crushed, leaving even her suitor at a loss._

"_He did it last week, when she was coming to give the horse apples. He obviously thought himself clever. But I saw her leaving, and her dress was ripped, and she was crying." There was a slight flash in the smoldering at that, though the boys voice remained quiet during the whole recounting._

"_He was the only one inside when I got in here afterwards."_

_They loosened him. They did not even begin to think that he could have made it all up. Everyone knew Tristran did not make things up._

_The boy briefly surveyed his companions when they were finished. There was no accusation in his hazel eyes. Nor relief. Just him._

_The first thing he did was to go back in, and retreive the dao, strapping it on his back..._

_Hawk cries above his head and the man is disturbed in his thoughts. It is now, outside Castle Tintagel. He is taller now, and older. But without regret still, for that day._

_He reaches out his arm and she lands, giving her usual greeting nuzzle at his braid. He stares into her eyes for a while, then turns and looks up to the upper floors of the castle, or villa, outside which he is currently finding himself._

_The december wind carries flecks of snow across the silent courtyard. From one of the windows, light shines. The sound of commotion can be heard. A womans voice speaks up, pleading._

"_Marcus, please, I am tired. Go to bed."_

_An argument seems to be on the verge of breaking out. The face of the man is closed up. Eyes shut, as if in pain. He tries not to hear. _

_Abruptly, then, he puts his heels to his horse. It skits forward, taking the way to the gate in a few strides. Then they cross the bridge, the thundering waves below mercifully drowning every other sound._

_He disappears over the moor, darkness enveloping him._

_In the windows of the house, the lights keep on shining, as a beacon._

_They can be seen far away across the sea. _

_**Author's note : I have had some comment on the abrupt shift from Tristran-then to Tristran-now in the ending. I have tried slightly to remedy the confusion, until it occurred to me that it is really meant to be confusing. As it initially is to him, when Hawk wakes him up.**_

_**So I'll be so bold as to let you all abide with it.**_


	6. Fatherhood

_**Usual disclaimers apply. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**Chapter 6 - Fatherhood. **  
_

_The woman meanders down the stairs. Her hair is in disarray, her gown no longer falling straight and flat. She looks tired._

_She reaches her hall, finding the woman that is presently her charge asleep in the sheephides, babe in the cradle beside her. The ghost of a tender smile graces the corner of her mouth then. She goes to the bedding, bending over the fey-like, darkhaired woman, tracing a lock of the jet black hair behind her ear. Then she looks to the babe, making sure he is soundly asleep._

_The whole house is quiet now, breathing as one in the night. The embers of the fire creates a warm glow in the hall._

_Somewhere upstairs, the Roman is snoring, wine still burning in his cheeks._

_Soundlessly, as a ghost, the woman hovers through the hall and to the door. In her hand, she keeps still the signed order of Marcus Cunomorus. There is no time to waste._

_The skirts of her gown dance slightly in the night wind when she gets outside. Her feet are bare._

_The small flicker of snow has stopped, but the air is crystalline with frost. The skies are covered in stars._

_Standing on the stairs, just in front of her own door, the woman looks to the sky, her eyes fixing on a certain constellation, Cernunnos, whom the Romans call Orion. The hunter, with his beasts and the three stars sparkling in his belt, ever recognizable. A few stray clouds, blown by the wind, glide over the sky past him, making it seem like he is moving, on his hunt across the firmament._

_She fixes her eye on the star in the middle of the five-corner shape that is his torso. The star that would be his heart. She holds out the parchment scroll in her hand, her arm stretched straight out from her body._

_And she wills him to come back._

_/\/\/_

_Bors relates :_

He was back some two weeks after we had sent him off, having covered the distance between Exeter and Caerleon impossibly fast. A small week more, he told us, and the reserves would be here.

"Muirgeirn must really have been working hard on Marcus," Lancelot quipped, upon hearing the news. "and in her condition? Impressive..."

Lancelot was not a bad man at heart. But he understood, like no other man I have met, to carry a grudge, and he and Muirgeirn - oh well, better not go into that story at all.

Tristran, who had just gotten off the horse, merely smirked at him. "Speaking of that," he said wryly, in his usual lilt, "I suspect many here will be happy to hear that she bore a fine son, one week ago come tomorrow." And with that, he patted Lancelot on the shoulder and trudged off, horse in tow, to the stables.

Lance looked like a thunderstorm, though I was not exactly sure why. _Guess he would have liked to be the cause of that after all, _I mused. Indeed, he never missed an opportunity to try and steal the credit for what Vanora brought into the world, that much I knew.

"Quit yer pouting," I said to him, "And go and find yer own woman to knock up. Ye might be lucky to have such a good friend in me, what does not mind yer boasting at me expense when the drink takes hold o' you," and I glared at him, "as long as I get a tooth or two in return for me trouble now and again. But that one," I pointed, "I don't think he is much for sharing honours."

Actually, Tristran looked like he could have cared less. Still, there was no reason for challenging fate. He had made his claim, and Lancelot had denied, and who cared anyway? It was just that back in those days, I knew that Lancelot, bless the man, did not like Tristran that much. He trusted him in the field of battle, but trusting is quite another matter than liking.

It was funny. In a way they were similar, both seeming to think so much more than they were ready to tell you. Still, they were sun and moon. Lancelot, in that case, being the sun.

For some reason, the majority of women opened like flowers to him. You can't blame a man for taking just a little advantage of that every now and again. I suppose it must have been a curse, sometimes. But he never let them come close. He was moody as hell. A brooding sun, if one can imagine such a thing. I always found it a bit childish of him, but then, he is a complex man, and I'm not.

And then there was our lunatic. Luna is what the Romans call the moon, and I do not think that it is a coincidence that they name their seers (or their crazy people) after her as well.

The moon changes its phases indefinitely. Its light is like that of a mirror. It hides things rather than lay them bare to your eyes. It can suddenly take on a blood red color. Or it can disappear on the sky, as if a big wolf has just swallowed it. The wise can tell when this is going to happen, they say. Well, I am just a soldier, and according to my woman, a dimwit. So go figure.

The sun might burn and he might blister, but in the end he is rather simple. He rises every morning and goes down every evening, sure as Rome and the taxes, and probably surer than that as well.

But you never know the ways of the moon. You just never know. Can't say I blame the sun for feeling uneasy.

Lancelot regarded me then, suddenly just looking very, very tired. "Bors," he said, "Sometimes you are a real numbskull, you know that?" And he trampled off, sulking as ever.

He was there though, when we celebrated Tristran that night, at the tavern, both for bringing the good news of the reinforcements finally coming to help our predicament, but also for the second piece of news of Arthurs new status as an uncle. After all, our scout had had a part to play in that.

We cornered Tristran before he could get away.

He put up with us relatively goodnaturedly, his slight mocking smile of I-know-something-you-don't showing surprisingly often that night, as we all slapped his back and tried to make him drink a bit more than that usual one mug, which of course he refused.

Parsifal, ever the entertainer, even held a rather funny and quite insinuating speech. That seemed to me to be pushing it, but Tristran sat still and let us all have our fun, though I noticed a tinge of melancholy in him then.

I wondered about it, and as it was my turn to fetch the next round, I asked the missus.

"You wonder," I mused, "what that funeral face is for." and I used the occasion to reach out and stroke her belly affectionately. Vanora is always pregnant, and she is always beautiful. "_I_for one have never felt any reason to complain when I was granted the joy of fatherhood by the grace of a lovely woman!" I was rewarded with one of her radiant smiles.

Then she glanced past me, unimpressed as always, to the tables where all twelve of us sat. "Bors, ye big ox," she said dryly. "Are the wheels of your mind really so slow in turning, that you seriously think he had anything to do with Muirgeirns pregnancy?"

I gawked at that, I must confess.

"But... but he made his claim." I stuttered. "We were all there, we heard it. No one challenged it."

Vanora snorted disdainfully._Males!_ "He was helping her out, you dimwit. Arthur was meddling, and she was in a position where she could not just tell him to mind his own damn business. Tristran saw that, of course." And she slammed the mugs of ale in the counter, leaving it to me to bring them back to my ever noisier peers.

As I was heading off with the goods, she pointed a warning finger at me. "Now don't you spill the beans, Bors!" and I could see in her looks that she really meant it. "No reason for opening that discussion again. Arthur did not have the right. It is Muirgeirns business." And I lamely made my way back with the ale, deciding that she was probably right. Vanora has always been a clever girl. Besides, no one will ever ask me if I know anything, mainly because they always suppose that if I do, I'd already have told them. It _can_ be an advantage, sometimes.

_But who then? _I can't help but wonder. Apparently there is some secret with the making of that kid. Oh well, that will not be the first time. Better not meddle in the business of priestesses. You don't want to get on the wrong side of them. I am living with a woman who is just a tavern-mistress, and already, that is more than enough. Women are serious business, and no mistake.

_Maybe Lance has got the right idea after all, _I ponder, as I distribute the boot between my increasingly pissed brothers. Out loud however, I just gesture at my friend, the birdman, with my own mug, as he is sitting there, imprisoned, between Gawain and Parsifal : "Here's to Tristran, friend of the Avalon priestesses. Who would 'ave thought it?"

He looks back at me and salutes me then, slowly, with his own lone, half-empty mug. An understanding seems to be passing between us then, and I feel good, knowing that yes, Vanora was right indeed. He knows now, that I know, and he trusts me.

And I will not be the one to betray that trust. _A good friend indeed the priestess has in you, _I think, as we all lift our voices in a collective cry of _'RÙS!',_before draining our mugs to the very bottom.

/\/\/

_Dagonet relates :_

I was not at the tavern, the night they celebrated Muirgeirn's son.

Really, when we say _the tavern, _we mean the eating quarters, the mess. But since Vanora has an affinity with brewing mead, and it is good mead, the Head Commander way back allowed her a small side-income, as long as she and her girls get the food on the table as well.

Yes, there are worse messes than ours at Camlann.

But I was not at the tavern that night. I was at the Wall, having duty, but from what I could glean from the stand-offish silence of Tristran when he came up the stairs to the parapet, settling some way away to eat his apple in peace, they must have been quite annoying.

Apparently, he had decided to finally give them the slip. As he sat there, watching the moon above, the light of which was turning the grass in front of the Wall a ghostly silverblue, I did not have the heart to intrude, though I had not yet had the chance to greet him after his arrival.

So I remained where I was, showing my friendship by leaving him be, pretending he was not there at all. Just as he always, countless times, had done when I wished the same, except in those cases it always seemed naturally mutual, that none of us was in any mood to be harassed by the other.

I heard of it all from Bors the next day, which made me pity Tristran even more. _It must have been hell for him,_ I thought, shuddering at the thought of being in his shoes, and marvelling at the fact that no one had got hurt. It did not surprise me to witness him, the next couple of weeks, avoiding all of us even more than usually, being almost constantly out on his rounds in the wild, exasperating even Arthur, who certainly is not usually having a hard time finding assignments enough for his men to work at.

It was not until weeks later, when Muirgeirn arrived back at Camlann, her son on her arm, with greetings to all the Sarmatian riders from Marcus Cunomorus and his wife, and we bore witness to the first discreetly, but _very,_ influenced Tristran in history, that I started to get a bit worried.

He was up and about as early and as watchful as usual the next morning, only slightly more disgruntled, and he never repeated the show, but our attention was caught. Muirgeirn and I kept a discreet eye on him, honoring some kind of mute bargain, made between us that night, at the door of Vanoras.

Now, keeping an eye on Tristran when he does not want to be spied on is quite an impossible task of course. But it did not stop us from trying.

Muirgeirn succeeded best, managing to catch his attention with an interesting game which they evidently played on the Holy Isle. It was called_shantraj,_or_shah,_and she explained the basics of it to him one night, the three of us sitting on the parapet because he and I were on duty together, and she had nothing to do. She does not have much in common with the women of the Wall, or, I suppose, with that many women in general. Most of the women of the Wall are not very educated, and also, she is Arthur's sister. They are a little affraid of her. The men too, for that matter.

Bors and Vanora were an exception, I guess, but then they always were, concerning Tristran as well, Vanora never forgetting what he had done for the sake of her dead sister. But they had a lot of mouths to feed, and not a lot of time off, the end of it being that just the four of us, counting the infant, found ourselves up here, in the night.

She elaborated on the _shantraj,_while I held her babe, making sure that he slept. She insisted that I had a way with him. She did not have a name for him yet, and I found it odd. It was as if she had difficulty coming to terms with his existence. I wanted to question her about it, but somehow, I dared not.

_Shantraj_is an intricate game, apparently, filled with strategy and need of sharp wits. Tristran was, to all appearances, minding his guarding duty, but I, who know him, could see that he was also listening rapt to her explanation. Over the next couple of days, he asked her questions, short and to the point, of the pieces used for that game, and whenever I saw him having some time on his hands, he was whittling away on some wooden pegs, patiently but incessantly.

During the course of roughly one turn of the moon, he produced the thirty-two pieces needed, according to her instructions.

He showed us one evening, a lopsided wolf-grin on his face as he shook them out of the small leatherbag he had been keeping them in. There were sixteen made of yew, and sixteen of dark oak. He sunk his pointy teeth into an apple, taking a large chunk out of it, then folded his arms in front of him on the table, apple in hand, munching at the chunk and regarding her, impassively.

The battle begun.

She was white, he was dark, the infant and I watching with awe from the sideline, as the titans clashed. Of course, she had been playing it and he had not, and the first many games she won, but he learned quickly. She was a strategic genius the likes of her brother, that much was clear, but Tristran had a certain random insanity to his manner of playing, which made it extremely hard to second guess him. I recognized it very well, from the field of battle. The Woads always misjudged his economic way of moving, thinking he was slow. And they always got a horrible surprise, when they got closer. He was infamous among them now, or so we had heard.

Muirgeirn came to share many of their experiences, though all in all, the two of them were disturbingly equal, for two such different-thinking individuals.

One evening turned into a series, and I found myself often in the company of the little one, satisfied with surveying the battlefield from the side, having to stay close anyway so she could breastfeed him when he got hungry. She did not have much milk. I soon had to seek out Vanora, the authority on feeding of infants at Hadrians Wall, and she taught me how to mix cow and goats milk, and feed it to him whenever his mother could not get the flow going.

It was one such evening the priestess had the scout cornered. He was sitting there with his usual inscrutable look, however the slightest tension in his jawline betrayed him. He was losing, and he did not like it one bit. Had he been Bors, he might have screamed.

His dark orbs focused on one piece after the next, Muirgeirn watching him with mirth in her eyes. I was just sitting there pondering how she managed to look simultaneously so smug and so radiant, when suddenly, the boy shifted slightly on my arm, and made a small sound, as if wanting to focus our attention.

I shifted my eyes from Muirgeirn to Tristran, and found him staring intently at the babe, his hand hovering the same way as does Hawk, over one seemingly insignificant piece, one of those shaped as the head of a horse (and those he had made most beautifully).

He looked back to the board again, and then smiled, the chilly smile I had sometimes seen him brandish when the Woad were almost close enough. "Wise counsel, little one," and he moved the piece. "_Shah."_He breathed the word at her with just the hint of a leer, as if it was some kind of indecent suggestion. Most, if not all of the women at the fort of Caerleon would have fled, faces white.

Muirgeirn only laughed, but then, as it was her turn, she abruptly stopped, her brow furrowing as she examined the board, until finally, an accusing sound escaping her, she looked from the boy, to Tristran, and back to the boy again.

"A conspiring!", she huffed, mock insult in her voice. Tristrans eyes were twinkling with delight.

The infant was starting to make a fuss. Apparently he was getting hungry.

"Wise counsel indeed," Muirgeirn muttered, resting her eyes on her son. She shook her head, in mock scolding. Then she reached out and took him from my arms, holding her face to his, the dark eyes of the infant staring widely awake into hers, reflecting the same intelligence. _They look exactly alike, _I thought.

"In saxon, the word for _wise_and_ dark _is the same. _Mordred,_Dark Council, I call you." She smiled sadly. "Some son you are, cheating your mother like that." And she kissed his tiny forehead, before laying him to her breast.

I felt Tristrans watchful eyes on me, as I took the sight of them in, the mother and her child. My arms felt strangely empty when she had taken him from me.

But in a good way.

/\/\/

_**Authors note : I know 'asking the missus' is an anachronism in Roman Britain, but there was no way around it somehow. Bors would definitely ask the missus if in doubt. Must be Mr. Beaver sticking his head on the scene. **_

_**A nod to celosia, who seems to share my idea of Tristran being a sucker for intricate strategy games.**_


	7. Beekeeping

_**Usual disclaimers etcetera.**_

_**Seeing as it is Beltaine night (for those who don't know it), it seemed fitting to upload this chapter tonight, even if it is a bit early... **_

_**07 – Beekeeping. (six and a half years before Badon Hill)**_

_Muirgeirn relates :_

Artorius nodded at me when I entered. His smile was nervous, as if I was a higher-ranking officer. It felt odd, so to make both of us feel a bit more comfortable, I sat down beside him, on the chair where, I knew, Caius used to sit when he was still with us.

Artorius and Caius had been nigh inseparable since childhood. It felt strange that Caius' chair was empty for my taking, now.

Artorius fidgeted a bit with the paper he was reading. I recognized the scroll. It was the one I had brought from Marcus when I returned from Tintagel, some months after the reserves. Apparently, what it said was to Artorius' liking, for he brandished suddenly the boyish smile which always signified his satisfaction with himself and the current situation. He looked at me and smiled again, now wider and less nervously.

Mordred was with Dagonet. Artorius always seemed more at ease, I had discovered, when the fruit of my pagan harlotry was not in sight – though I knew he would never utter such words, or even consciously think them, I knew that the bishops whispered them to him every now and again. I felt a short surge of anger at the thought. _How like the priests, ever meddling in business that is not theirs, even tearing at the bonds of family, if they find them displeasing!_

But I composed myself. Artorius was a grown man, and I a grown woman, and we both had responsibilities, as well as good use of each others respective positions. I had faith in his common sense. At least relatively.

"It seems, my sister, that you have done well with strengthening our previously so tentative bonds to Marcus Cunomorus. I owe you and the priestesshood of Avalon gratitude for having agreed to undertake this for me." and he beamed the way only he can, softening any thoughts of the priests trying to ride his back. _Anything for you, my dear little brother!_

"Now," he said, and put away the rest of his work, facing me. "What is it you wanted to talk to me about? I hope it is self-evident," he added quickly, "that you must bring my gratitude to the Lady, when some time again you travel to the Isle. I owe her and you a favor for this." And as if reading my mind, he continued, with a soft twinkle in his eye. "The Bishop in Londinium might not like that, but frankly, that must be his own business. Pelagius taught both me and you, sister. That is enough for me."

Younger brothers just have a way, I guess. My heart melted at his words. "And a wise man he is, " I replied warmly. "But as for travelling to the Lady, that is exactly why I have come. I saw her briefly, on my way here from Tintagel this spring, and she blessed the newborn herself before sending me on to the Wall. It has been a good summer, both for me and my son, enjoying the hospitality of my brother." I smiled.

Indeed it had. Mordred was nine months now, and young as he was, Dagonet had already quite won him away from me. I almost felt a bit sad, having now to separate those two. Indeed, the image of this silent knight, who had grown to be such a dear friend, once out of his shell, was clear in my mind. _I must return, _I promised myself, while putting forth the matter of my departure to Artorius.

"I must leave now for the Holy Isle. My tasks here are done for this summer, and our aunt has need of me. She has sent me dreams..." I shook my head sadly. "I swear, she is turning older and weirder by the day." I saw that Artorius was looking politely interested. He never had any special relationship with our mothers sister, mainly, I think, because he did not have the Sight as both she and I had. He didn't even believe in such things. I quickly changed subject : "But if it pleases my brother, I shall come more often from now on, seeing him here as he walks the line of the Roman Empire. And you and your men are always welcome on the apple island."

He nodded. "That would be well, especially since you seem to have such a good influence on Marcus." He grinned, "He is a shrewd old badger, and was a great warrior in his day, and I would trust his allegiance to Rome to the end of the world. But frankly, I still had not believed it possible for anyone to persuade him to another course of action, once his mind was set. You are a tactician to be reckoned with, Muirgeirn." And he could not resist the temptation to pry : "I believe you allied yourself with his lady Ysolde, or am I wrong?" and once again the playful look, the hint of the boy I used to play hide and seek with before he grew up and turned so somber and burdened with responsibilities.

I laughed. "Quite so, brother. Quite so, though I am sure that lady Fortuna also had a part to play. Though initially quite a scare, it did seem strangely fortunate that we managed to bring to her a task of healing right away. It seemed to melt her defenses, to be met by people in honest need of help."

Arthur nodded again. "I owe her for that as well," he said. "I shudder at the thought of having to do without Tristran up here. Tracking the movements of the Woad and figuring out the designs of Merlin when he gets angry, without the keen eyes and sharp ears of that man."

And indeed, he almost did shudder. He cared deeply about his Sarmatians, I knew. Perhaps more than he ought to. _Oh, but you should be one to talk, Muirgeirn! _

He turned from his dark thought, however, and faced me again. "Thanks to Ysolde of Tintagel, Mordred will grow up knowing his eldritch spook of a sire!" He teased.

I ignored the quip, just nodding. "I know, I owe her as well." And we both furrowed our brows in thought, me trying like crazy to figure out how it was that she had managed to put two such as I, and this my brother, in her debt, and with such ease. "Know beyond a doubt," I warned Artorius, "that if she has need of this favor, she will call it! However, it is not probable that she will do so without reasonable cause. Let us hope the current friendly relation between your Rome and her Eire persists."

"God grant it." He agreed. "But you wished to leave now, and I have no right to hinder you, however much I would like to. I would only ask your advice on how to proceed, should I need to contact the Cunomorus family again, whilst you are not able to help me out. It might very well be that I will have need of it, and by now, you know more of them than I. I have not talked to Marcus since last I was in Londinium, and that is quite a while since. What is your counsel?"

It was typical of him, I thought, always seeing to the next dozen possible moves of the _shantraj. _I gave it some thought, recounting to myself the events of my stay at Tintagel, and finally concluded :

"It might sound daft, and you might have trouble sparing him, if need arises while the Woad is on the warpath. However, if I were you I would send Tristran." And I carefully regarded him, trying to measure how my advice was being received. I argued on : "He is the one quickest on the distance from north to south Britain. He would be the best courier, and though he does not say much, the nature of his original arrival at Tintagel seems to have become the cause of good understanding between him and Ysolde, whom we have just agreed is the one to please. And still, we know him; he has a cool mind, and will not indebt us further without need." And I nodded, to myself as much as to Artorius, settling on the matter.

"If you need to reach Cornwall or me, send Tristran."

Artorius looked surprised, but he gave it thought, his green eyes seeming to ponder the information I had provided. Finally he nodded in agreement. And over the years, as the alliance between Tintagel and Camlann grew stronger, he would heed this advice often, though the outcome thereof would surprise him more than once.

I left for Avalon the next day, taking Mordred with me, the image of a forlorn Dagonet etched in my heart as I rode onto the road south. I prayed that the adequate stream of children from Vanoras womb would ease his longing for Mordred until I could return. Tristran stood some way behind him, cutting his everpresent apple, his strange eyes moving from his friend and to me, seeming to question my departure in a very inquisitive manner. You, who have the freedom to decide where to reside, why do you separate these two?

I felt uncomfortable, and turned my back, after a last lame waving at Dagonet.

As I rode on, looking to the boy resting in his carrier against my chest, I wondered at the twisting of fate. _No father but the God could I offer you when I arrived at Camlann with you in my womb. Now, you have two, self-assigned, each in their way. Lucky boy, _I thought enviously. I only remember my own father vaguely, while Artorius never knew him as anything else but a _kurgan, _as the Sarmatians called the small hill of dirt under which he rested. It was strange that the destiny of our family seemed to be so intertwined with that of this nomad people, these weatherbeaten, fiercely proud men of obscure tribes, so far east it was on the other side of the Empire itself.

Even my christian brother, should he fall in battle, would let the tradition of the kurgan be his lot, I knew. I personally liked the thought, if indeed worse should come to worse. It was not altogether so different from the way we of the Old Tribes here in Britain put our dead to rest. It seemed fitting, since Artorius had chosen to be Roman in life, that he would be almost British in death.

I rode south, the forests of Britain still green and lush, but I knew they would soon be clad in blood and gold, at the onset of autumn. Harvest were in full swing, and the further south I came, the more the barley fields dominated the landscape, and in them, sickle in hand, the farmers, enjoying their bounty with sweat on their brow. The big fire festival of Lughnasadh, the harvesting of the God, would soon take place, and I would celebrate it with my aunt and fellow priestesses.

Indeed, she had called me home, showing herself to me in dreams, her strange, cackling but caring laughter echoing in the room when I woke. I had not seen her, save for our brief meeting after the birth of Mordred, since the Beltaine one year hence, when I had conceived. Indeed, I had often wondered whether it was by some deal with her, made after her foresight of events, that Tristran had stepped in, saving me so.

It would not surprise me the least.

In fact, Tristran had never thrown himself into the ecstasy of the spring with us. But of course, my brother had rarely even been present at the beltaine fires, so he would not know.

_Though you might think he knew his own scout well enough to realize..._

I found myself thinking of why indeed, that it was that way with Tristran, at these occasions.

It was not something he _did. _ He just seemed unapproachable, as if even the priestesses were afraid of the savage presence emanating from him – though I had seen that they, in opposition to the untrained, horrified peasant women, often let their eyes linger on him.

I had not been any exception myself, I admitted, as I thought the matter over. But that was all. We watched, and we shuddered, perhaps in delightful terror, feeling suddenly all like virgins again.

Even we who knew of the Great Cycle, and of Death being only a point on this wheel, seemed intimidated by the shadow of it hovering around him. No one ever took his hand.

The only times I had ever returned to the bonfire and found him no longer sitting there, staring serenely into the flames, were on the few occasions when my aunt had been present. I closed my eyes and recalled her long, steel-grey hair, the wrinkles of wisdom in her face, her knuckled body with belly and breast softening from bearing and suckling many children, all born from her office as High Priestess of the Holy Isle. Her black eyes were like deep wells of memory, her mouth almost devoid now of teeth, a gate to the Underworld itself.

That is why she was called the Lady of the Lake. And that is why she, also, with her age and her wisdom, often intimidated the males present at the beltaine fires, be they peasants or soldiers. They chose the bosom of the younger women.

_They are afraid of dancing with Grandmother Death, _she would cackle, with no small amount of self-irony, but a tinge of sadness also, at the folly of these new generations, with their misunderstood concept of eternal life, of youth as the only true state of being. As if life without aging and death inbetween, could ever be truly eternal.

But apparently Tristran was not afraid, though she must at least be thrice his age. I had believed, foolishly, that maybe he had taken her on because he would not tolerate any fear in himself, but indeed, on the same beltaine as had seen the conception of Mordred, I had watched them from the shadows, enveloped myself in the enraptured breathing embrace of I knew not whom. They had been standing at each side of the great bonfire. I had seen him approach her, reverence and genuine desire in his dark eyes, mirroring the flames. No, Tristran knew, and as much as he was the only one who could match her, so it seemed to be also the other way round. She possessed the deepest wisdom, and nothing less satisfied him.

And the Lady always just smiled lewdly, if anyone dared ask what joy she had had from her young lover. _Oh but he is not mine, _she would say, with mock prudence. _He does not belong to anyone but himself. He is biding his time, until the right moment._

_Until now? _ I found myself thinking, at that. But I was unable to pinpoint why. So many questions! Indeed, it was about time I was again seeking out the company and counsel of the Lady...

I find her at the beehives, my Queen Bee, lifting the boards towards the light, the white wax hiding the golden honey underneath, shining in the sun. The apple trees are brimming. The cidermaking time is on, at the Isle of Avalon, the isle of the apples.

Her old hands have become very very thin.

She smiles even before she lifts her eyes to meet mine.

"It is good that you have come, my lamb." And she hands me the bundle of smoking straw, with which to keep the bees calm.

Her skin is like tanned old pergament. She scrapes the honey off the board gently, ignoring the buzzing bees around her, as do I, for it was she who taught me. Indeed, when they land on her skin it seems it is only to kiss her. She is the queen. The mother of all of them. They can never be angry with her.

The honey seeps, slowly, into the finely crafted clay container standing in a basket on the ground before her. When she is finished she puts the board back in the hive, and motions for me to hand her the smoking twigs and hay, and collect the basket for her. She cannot bend so low anymore. Her back is stiff and her movements slow.

I am momentarily shocked by it. When I left, her movements were still soft and fluent, and even though I sensed the slowing of them when she blessed my son, I realize I have been blocking it out. It hits me, now, and it hits me hard.

A heavy feeling of dread anchors itself in my gut. _Not yet! Ah, Goddess, not yet!_

But she just throws me a sidelong glance, cackling softly to herself, showing the few remaining teeth in her cavelike mouth. She knows what I am thinking, even now.

There are never any formal introductions or chit-chat to be had with the Lady. You ask her what is on your mind, and she answers. That is how it has always been.

So that is what I do.

"Is all well with you, aunt? You seem frailer than last year at this time."

She smiles slyly.

"You have been wondering about my young stag."

One asks the Lady of what is on ones mind, but she might not necessarily answer in any form that makes sense. I sigh. "Aunt, please..."

She throws the now-I-am-insulted routine then. Movements coquet, eyes half closed, regarding me scepticly.

"Patience, Muirgeirn. All in good time. Now..." and she makes her way down the stone steps , carved in the slopes of the Tor before time was time, supporting herself at my arm, while I keep the basket with the honey on my other hip.

"Now..." she repeats as we reach the shadow of the trees lower down, aiming our course for the Chalice Well, the sacred well, where she has her abode. "You have been wondering, my poppet, of my young stag. But I cannot teach him anything more. His time has come. As have yours." And she stops to rest against a tree, regaining her breath.

"That is why I have called you home, lamb. As I am sure you are aware." And she looks at me with her black pearly eyes, overflowing with so much love I want to cry. Want to scream, beg her not to leave. She looks at me and furrows her brow, wagging a finger beratingly at me.

"Oh now don't show me such a face! I will be here until Samhainn. Then it is enough. You must be content with that."

She sighs heavily. "You are no child anymore Muirgeirn. You are a Mother now. You are ready. The robes of the Lady are awaiting you."

I stop and stare at her wide-eyed._ Surely, she has gone mad!_

"Oh no I have not, my insolent niece," she answers my thought, dryly. "I am, and have always been, without any doubt as to who was going to be the Lady after I was gone." And she looks happy and sad at the same time. "Your trials will be harder than mine. But then..." and she seems lost in thought for a moment, leaning ever heavier on my arm until suddenly she wakes up.

"Just watch out for the Dancers."

"The what?"

"The _Dancers!" _Impatiently, she draws a figure in the air, like the number eight laying on its side.

"I am sorry?!"

"_The Da - _oh, you'll find out soon enough."

And she sits down, back against the wall of her house which we have just reached, and falls asleep in the sun.

_**Authors note : This one is for my Queen Bee, my grandmother, who taught me so much, and who died this October. Tjørnen er sprunget ud, Bedstemor. Jeg savner dig.**_


	8. Craft

_**Authors Note : After a series of people seeming not to get the gist of the previous chapter, or believing that something was wrong in their heads when they perceived it the way they did, allow me to say : NO YOU GOT IT RIGHT, THE OLD BROAD FUCKED HIM.**_

_**Right... on with it.**_

_**Ch. 8 - Craft**_

_**(Six years before Badon Hill.)**_

_Bors relates :_

He made the new flute out of Bedwyrs left arm.

No, I'd better start at the beginning.

Bedwyr was out of the ancient family of the Kalybs. I am not really sure if that tribe exists anymore, save in the legends of our people, but no doubt their numbers have swelled the ranks of the rest of the Sarmatian tribes, and Bedwyr grew up amongst the Aorsi, near to the border of the Empire, the aegis under which we were put two hundred years ago, when our pastures were smeared with blood by the pompous bastard who afterwards named himself 'Sarmaticus' to gloat over us.

But Bedwyr grew up partly in a fixed settlement, and his father, and his fathers father, were amongst those who knew the secrets of the steel. Of course, all sarmatian tribes pride themselves in their knowledge of metalcraft, and especially the manufacturing of swords. But none so more than the Kalybs, and to this day I will bet any man half his wages for one year of service, that none were a greater smith than Bedwyr.

He had served his time as part of the generation before us, and opted to stay after it was done. He needed nothing else but a smithy to feel at home, and really liked having his own now, as opposed to having before served as such, on top of his military service. He had gotten little or no extra pay for it back then of course.

But now, being his own, he charged what he saw fit, and the Romans disgruntedly admitted his superiority and still came to him if they needed something done really well. He did not officially charge them extra, but he knew like no other how to make bargain by virtue of boons, and calling them ruthlessly whenever he needed it. He was still a ferocious warrior, a wizard with an anvil, and he was the Elder of all Sarmatians at Camlann.

As such, he was greatly revered and respected by all of us. If there was a dispute of any kind, Bedwyrs calm authority would sort it out.

He had taken Gawain for apprentice quite early on, having spotted his suitability as a successor. Gawain really could have been his son, having the same gentle, reasonable manner about him. Bedwyr had seen his eyes shining the first time he had been let in the workshop, and so had seemed to decide that this boy was the one to whom he would turn over his secrets. There are many rituals and cautions to observe when working the metal, apart from the handiwork of the craft. If one does not observe them, the spirit of the steel might be angered, and work against you. The weapon won't be as good, and it might break when you need it the most, or even turn upon you.

Gawain was not only strong and resilient enough for the heavy work with the hammer. He had the patience for all that. While he probably always would be more the craftsman and less the mystic that Bedwyr was, he listened to the Lore of the Steel without interrupting, which was good, because Bedwyr seemed to be a sea impossible to empty, and his mouth never, e_ver, _seemed to rest from when he got up in the early hours, and until bedtime.

For example, according to the lore of Bedwyr, Artorius' sword had been made by the Sarmatian smith who had served under the first Lucius Artorius Castus. And this smith had been a Kalyb. This was obvious from the name, since Ex-Calyb-Burnt had been inciseled in the blade of the weapon.

Not many details escaped Bedwyrs attention. He had quite an obsession with details, the kind of details no one else cares about. Like when a spider spins its net, how exactly does it proceed. How exactly does a birds wing function to take flight. That sort of bollocks.

It was therefore, in retrospect, to be expected that while the rest of the fort grossed out about Tristran turning the bone of his severed limb into a flute, Bedwyr himself were fascinated with the prospect.

I remember the whole course of events because of their absurdity.

It all started, of course, with us galloping home at full speed to get Bedwyr to the surgeon. It was in the depths of winter, snow all about, and he had bled on it all the way home.

We'd had another skirmish with the Woads, and they had been numerous enough that Bedwyr had come with us to help out. He was bored, he said.

One of the Woads had had a rather nasty axe. I did not see it happen myself but Galahad did, and the poor boy did not eat any of Vanora's stew that night, but then he always were a bit delicate.

He had, Galahad maintained, been circling the battleground with his bow along with Tristran, and from there seen Bedwyr fall like an ox smashed in the head at the butchers. Tristran had seen it too, for according to Galahad he abruptly dismounted, and started walking into the middle of the fray to where Bedwyr had fallen, at a even pace, almost as if going for a stroll. There were Woads trying to take advantage of it of course, but they were pragmaticly dispatched, I have no doubt, without significantly slowing his progress. The axe-wielding woad, for his part, never knew what hit him.

It was at that point the situation caught me eye, and only too well, for Bedwyr was a very big man, and his scaled armor did not make matters better. None of us could have handled him alone.

We got him out of the way, and on to Tristrans horse. I did not notice until back at the surgery, when I looked across the surgeons table, that Tristran had brought the arm along.

It _is, _for some reason, something people do. It really is the most futile thing, since it is not as if it can just be sown back on. But then, one can't just tell ones comrade (if he survives the ordeal) that one left part of him out with the Woads.

It just seems a bit impolite.

So there he stood, covered in blood, holding the lower left arm of Bedwyr the smith, a disturbing glint in his eyes as he examined it. I must confess it gave me the willies. But then you sort of get used to getting them, when being around that man.

"Are ye going to eat it or put it down?" I asked sarcasticly, me worry of Bedwyrs life probably making it sound a little harsher than I had meant it. Tristran did not seem to mind though. He sort of woke up and gingerly put the grisly artefact away, placing it on the table just behind him.

"He is not going to have use of it any more," he concluded. "I hope he will live so I can ask his permission."

"So you can ask him_ what?" _and for a moment I was afraid that me gallows humor had accidently hit the mark of Tristrans intentions, though I have never heard that any Sarmatian tribe has made use of that revolting custom. And certainly not the Alani, even if I sometimes suspect them of having become slightly influenced by the Hunnic dogs which are their neighbours. Certainly, Tristrans erratic ways had shown traces of that very influence before this day, though mostly around people he didn't like. And what the Huns like doing, me blessed ma used to scare me and Dag to death telling of.

Tristran did not provide any answer to my outburst, but he looked at the lifeless form of Bedwyr with the sudden overwhelming sadness that sometimes just seems to wash into his eyes uninvited. The sight of it immediately made me want to hit myself for suspecting him of something so ridiculous.

His low voice sounded gritty.

"I hope he lives."

Bedwyr was strong as a bear. He lived. When Gawain came home and found out, he sat by the sickbed for three days, looking miserable for not having been there from the start, and pestering the surgeon for things he could do to help his master, until, at lenght, Bedwyr woke up.

The smith was not happy though, with the circumstances. He did not say anything but we could see his thoughts on his face. The thought of the anvil and the hammer which he would not be able to use again, save in cooperation with Gawain. It must have been pure horror to face it, for a man who really was a craftsman to the core. Bedwyr became a sulking and grumbling old misery-guts, so far from his old self that we all worried the mourning for this partial loss of his craft would make him try and do himself in. But over the next week he seemed to gradually come to grips with the new situation, and finally he asked if any of us had brought back the severed limb.

I briefly got worried at that, because frankly I couldn't remember what had happened to it. Tristran must have taken it with him, and what he had done with it I was not sure I wanted to know.

Under all circumstances, it could not be in any condition by now, in which Bedwyr would want to see it.

But I got hold of Tristran out in the courtyard and asked him what he had done with it.

"Buried it." he said, and I could not repress a sigh of relief.

"In the snow," he then continued, shattering my just found equilibrium. Then he asked if he could speak with Bedwyr. It was not really a question, for he walked past me before I could respond, his course aimed at the sickbed of the smith, and I, momentarily stunned, stood where he had left me like an ox asleep before the plow. I am sure Vanora would have fallen in love with me all over again, had she seen me then.

"HEY," and I woke from my stupor and put myself into motion after him, spotting the disorderly braided chaos of his mane over the activity of the courtyard. I was sidetracked at that point though, by Gilly who came running after some other kid, murder in his eyes. The kid had a black eye, and looked horrorstricken. I grabbed Gilly by the neck of his shirt when he raced past. One thing is letting people know who is boss, but giving a black eye ought to be enough, and I had promised Vanora earlier that same day that I would not let him turn into a bully.

When I reached the infirmery after having had a good man-to-man talk with me eldest son, I met Tristran on the way out. To those who know him, his expression betrayed deep satisfaction.

_Oh no..._

I warily entered the room where Bedwyr were presently being nursed, to find there a smith looking almost his own self, a sardonic grin gracing his weatherbeaten features for the first time in many, many days. At the side of his bed sat Gawain, his face slightly green, wearing an expression of horror-mixed wonder.

It took me some time to get the nerve up to ask.

"What was it he wanted to ask you about?"

Bedwyr just grinned, looking highly amused and slightly mad. I turned my attention to Gawain in stead. He looked at me with a kind of tiredness, the kind you see on the face of a man who has been confused and shocked so many times he can't be bothered to keep becoming so.

"Tristran," he explained patiently, apparently as much to himself as to me, "Is finally, after all these years, going to make himself a new flute."

I looked at him quizzically. He sighed.

"He is going to make it from the bones of Bedwyrs arm." And at that point Bedwyr broke into an uncontrolled fit of laughter which momentarily had us questioning his sanity. He roared with it, Gawain wincing beside him and me shifting my weight uneasily from one foot to the other, pondering whether I ought to fetch the medicus and have him do something about it, whatever can be done about utterly crazy people.

But after some time he dried his eyes and looked from one to the other, an expression of unbridled amusement on his face. "You two act like a pair of Roman ladies," he said in mock scorn. And he lifted the stump to which the accursed limb used to be attached, looking at it with a kind of misanthropic resignation.

"It is clear that blasted piece of flesh will not do me any more good, seeing as it showed the indecency to get itself detached from the rest of me," he reasoned. Then he planted his gaze challengingly at me. "I can imagine no finer punishment for it, than being used in the crafting of an object, the magnificence of which I am sure will impress us all." And he smiled in satisfaction.

And that, as they say, seemed to be that.

/\/\/

_The light of the fire glints inbetween the stems of the trees. Its warm yellow light seem to mix with the silver of the full moon, turning the snow an impossible lightblue color. The trees are black, frosted._

_It is cold, but beside the fire it is warm. _

_The man examines the bone in his hand, his eye aiming along the lenght of it as he gauges its condition and possibilities. It is the underarm bone of a human._

_The stench of the boiling of it is less intense than earlier in the evening. The clear frosty air is slowly absorbing it._

_Among the embers just in the periphery of the fire, the porous remains of the marrow lie, shining, the liquid in them bubbling slightly as it evaporates, leaving just a few unrecognizable lumps to burn. The bone is now hollow, the slight organic arching of it lending its own kind of grace to the finish. The man will not make any engravings or carvings in it. It should be kept smooth and grey-white, in respect for its sacredness. _

_He lifts the knife then, and starts working, patiently and painstakingly._

_He scratches careful marks along the lenght of the bone. In one end, he cuts off slice after thin slice of bone, until the mouthpiece is formed. _

_It is no ordinary thing. The bone of a wise person, taken with their expressed permission, is not something easily procured. Any objects made from it will hold great power, and the crafting of them should not be taken lightly. When Hawk lands on the other side of the fire, he does not greet her as he usually does, for the work must be undertaken in strict silence. _

_The bird cocks its head and watches with interest. After some minutes she hops around the fire, having a better look. Her human, however, does not react, his entire being focused on the work he is undertaking._

_The man does not know how old the flute he had when he was a boy was. He is not sure anyone in his tribe knew._

_He drills the holes with a cicle, cleansed in the fire. He is very very careful, because the bone is still soft from the boiling. While this makes it easier to work with, it will also make it porous. There is no telling if his work will be a success, until it has dried up, which will be around the time when the moon is black again. It must not be played until then._

_He makes a v-formed incision a small way down the bone. Then he takes up the other pieces he has prepared, from the other, slightly thinner, armbone. He cuts and peels away small slices until they both fit meticulously, beside each other, into the v-shape. Then he glues them in place, using a sticky mass made from the pulverized, boiled bones of the fingers. It produces a shape like that of a shortstemmed Y upside down, though of course the man does not know this. _

_He doesn't read._

_He polishes the instrument, outside and inside, producing a smooth finish. It is not a very big flute, but he know the tone it will have, if his labor bears fruit. It will be two-toned. Two etheral, soft tones at a time, deeper than one would expect from so small a thing. It is no longer than his hand, from wrist to fingertip._

_And then, just like that, he stops working. There is nothing more to be done._

_But it must not be used until it is finished. Ensuring himself that the new object is entirely clean, he ties a string around it. It will be taken home, and hung somewhere where the wind can blow into it, drying it up while also telling its secrets to it, imbuing it with the right spirit to become a good instrument. He knows a place from off the wall, where no one will see it. When the moon is black, he will take it down again, and he will go somewhere far out in the wilderness, and try it out._

_He smiles at the thought. A wolvish smile, reveilling his pointed teeth. If any of his comrades saw him now, they might be astonished about the silent dancing of his eyes._

_It is not an ugly smile._


	9. Respect

_**Usual disclaimers apply.**_

_**Ch. 9 - Respect**_

_**(Six years before Badon Hill)**_

_Muirgeirn relates :_

To say that I would face trials worse than her own had been an understatement typical of the twisted humor of my aunt.

Viviane, the second-last Lady of the Lake, was burned at Samhuinn, the time the Christians call All-Hallows, as she herself had foreseen. Her funeral pyre was magnificent, sparks flying to the grey heavens as cries of joy to the All, while we stood around it and wept. For we had lost our mother and were orphans. At least I was, though my duty now would be to see to it that the rest of my flock would not be so indefinitely.

I was to step into the robes of the Lady, and through the winter, as the news of it spread, the condolences came to me, both from the Irish druids at Newgrange and the Christian monks of Iona.

They came, as well, from Bishop Germanus of Londinium, though the writing in his letter seemed to carry a certain mocking tone, as he greeted me, an old student of both the Lady and of Pelagius, and wished me luck in my office.

The irony was not lost on me.

When my aunt had still been Lady, the Christians had respected her. Through her age, she held connections to powers so ancient even they had to acknowledge them. Also, the followers of Pelagius, and the peaceful teachings of the Irish monks had still held sway in her time.

They did less now, I knew, even if my brother still suffered from the illusion that they did. In Londinium, and in Rome, a new Christianity was emerging, one suited to the agendas of kings and warlords. It seemed to have only little to do with the message of the Christ as Pelagius had explained it to me, sitting under the sacred thorn which legend held that Joseph of Arimathea had planted upon his arrival to the Blessed Isle.

Indeed, the way Pelagius had told of it, there seemed little difference between the words of the carpenters son and the Old Ways as we knew them. They were one.

Not so now. I could feel it, when upon meditations I scryed fragments of the ongoings in Rome, in the mirror of the Sacred Well. The city that proclaimed itself the heart of Christendom was changing.

And the New Rome did not respect me. They might fear me, but not remotely as much as they had respected or feared Her.

Fear, for that matter, is not enough. It is not something that glue things together. It splits them apart.

I received a letter from Pelagius himself as well, however. He would come from Rome when he could, he promised, and I was glad. If ever the Christians had what could be called a Merlin, it was Pelagius. I felt sorely the need to talk with him.

He came in spring, and he seemed tired. It worried me. He looked at me with pride though, and patted my cheek, an utterly Roman male thing to do, and one I would not have tolerated from anybody else but him.

"You were already a budding young woman when last I saw you, Muirgeirn," he smiled. "But that I should return to find you Lady of the Lake..." and his voice trailed off as he looked out across the orchards, the appleflowers filling the air around us with the scent of Avalon. The petals were everywhere.

"You do know," he said then, abruptly. "that it is a good thing you are here. You are strong, Muirgeirn. You always were the strong one." And he smiled sadly. "Caine asked God 'am I to be my brother's keeper?' I am afraid that exact position is going to become your lot the next couple of years, my Lady." And he looked at me pleadingly.

"I will not go on to Camlann from here," he said pensively. "I must go back to Londinium, and then to Rome. The longer I am away, the more the mice get to dance on the table." And he eyed me with a grave expression in his old face. _How old he had become..._

"And they are turning big these mice, and greedy." He shook his head. "Sometimes, I wonder if I am fighting for a world that will never exist."

"How can you say such things?" I rebuked him gently. "How can it ever be wrong to fight for what one believes in, as long as one does not enforce on others one's own view? 'Do what thou wilt, an' it harm none' we say in Avalon, and so said also the Christ. It is not the outcome that is important, but that we are true to ourselves." And, feeling a sudden surge of tenderness, I reached out and grabbed his old hand, squeezing it as hard as I could, willing him to see my thoughts in my eyes. _Don't you abandon me alone on the lines! Not you as well! _

He smiled at that, and brightened a bit. "You are wise beyond your years as ever, my lamb. Or Mylady, as I ought to call you now." and he bowed his head in reverence to the woman who, when last he had seen her, had still been an acolyte with the long braids of a maiden.

"Indeed," he said then, seeming to brace himself, "hearing such words from the mouth of the new Lady imbues my old heart with courage." And he straightened out, momentarily seeming to grow a bit younger and stronger again. I smiled.

"That is well," I said, "for you will hear them whether it pleases you or not. Now," and I led the way down to the houses of the druids. "May I invite you to dine and rest with us at the Blessed Isle, for as long as you wish, until such time as you wish to go back to Londinium, and to Rome? I have one of the Sarmatians here at the moment, he came from Artorius yesterday. So if you wish to send a message to Camlann, you can send it back by him." And I started leading the way down the path, but Pelagius halted me, laying his hand gently on my shoulder.

"Muirgeirn, promise me one thing," he said, and there was an urgency in his eyes that made me stop and look at him intently. He breathed in deeply. "Promise me," he said, "that you will find a moment of happiness that belongs to you. A moment that is yours and yours alone."

I nodded, not sure what he meant, but feeling strangely compelled by his words. And he let go of me again, turning to follow my lead.

"That, I believe, is the maybe the best way to fight the fight for the world we wish." And he started meandering his way down the steep path. I followed behind him, bereft of any words to give in reply.

When we reached the houses, we were greeted by the priestess currently attending the Lady. _Strange that... so often have I been the one to serve you, my dear aunt, combing your hair, serving you food...now I have become you myself..._

She put her palms against each other in front of her, the way we have always done here, since time immemorial. Her name was Nimuë I knew, and she was a young thing, delicate as a flower but strong of mind. _Now that I may not ever bear the daugher I owe the Goddess, perhaps she will be Lady after me...? Oh well, it will all be as She wills it._

And I shook the unnecessarily sombre thoughts from my mind as I greeted her back.

"There was a messenger while you were at the Tor, from the Lady of Cornwall." She said, and then handed me the scroll, wearing not the sigil I saw Marcus use when he signed the order last winter, but another, smaller one. It was in the style of the Irish.

"Indeed, news from Ysolde?" And I was glad as I opened it, eager to hear from her, in her house out there on the edge of the world. I had made her promise she would write me, but had not been sure, until now, that she would do it.

I read it and my eyebrows arched. "Certainly so!" and I turned towards Pelagius.

"It seems the Lady Ysolde is in Londinium with her husband." I smiled at the thought. At least then she would see people. But then, as I thought matters over, I knew that it was not the company of people she appreciated, in fact, she would probably not care much for it. It was the opportunity to _get out_ that would excite her. Even the most beloved home is a prison, if one cannot leave it, time and again.

I looked at the old man in front of me, still struggling, as I had seen him do ever since his arrival, to hide that his knees were giving him the gyp every time he had to stand up for a longer period.

"Pelagius, come and eat," I pleaded, leading the way into the cool shadow of the healing houses. I threw a glance at his old form as he walked past me across the threshold. "Really," I said, "If you are going back that way you might do well in asking the counsel of Cunomorus' wife, concerning those knees. She will probably be moving around the circles where you will be going anyway, and she knows even more of the art of healing than we do here. You are not a young man anymore." And I patted his cheek now, wondering at the irony of me doing that.

He put up with it gracefully, however, even grinned at me. The joke was not lost on him.

"Maybe I will then."

I nodded, gesturing to Nimuë to prepare a suitable meal for our guest.

"I will have to leave tomorrow already," he said then, in his apologetic manner.

I felt my own face fall with disappointment. _But I need so much to talk to you..._

He saw my distress, apparently, for he put a hand on mine then. "Not until tomorrow, Mylady. I have the whole evening for talking, and the night along with it. There is indeed much to discuss."

Comforted by that thought, I nodded at him and managed another smile. "Good then. We will talk this night. And then, since you are leaving so soon, I will send you off along with Artorius' man. He is going on to Londinium, with another message before he can return north. You might as well accompany him."

/\/\/

_Dagonet relates :_

I was surprised, when Arthur told me to saddle up for Londinium.

First of all, it was quite some way away. He goes there sometimes, but not if he can help it. I think the court of the Governor makes him nervous. Arthur is a gifted man in strategy, but he is no courtier at heart.

Of course, that could not always be helped. The Castus family has always had their say, and if they want to continue to have it, the head of them has to make an appearance sometimes. Especially what with him being the one working most 'in the field'. In the olden days, I have heard, when the Romans were a slightly more sensible lot than they are now, that position commanded respect. And fortunately, in the minds of many the Castuses are still formally the most powerful family of Roman Britain, by way of their status as the local warlords.

But times are changing. I see it in the worred lines by his eyes, though he will not talk to us of it.

Now, I am not much of a politician myself, but I know how to observe. And I will tell you that it might be a mug's game whenever Romans are gathered. But if you're not there, chances are the others will eat your piece of the cake.

It is not that Arthur wants the cake terribly much for himself, but he knows that if he doesn't make a lunge for some of it every now and again, we, his men, will pay. In the form of our blood being squandered on this or that whim of someone who has never been to the Wall and does not know shite of what goes on here.

Indeed, honour and respect are still administered to the warlords of the Romans. But they have to be there, flexing their muscles, to get their due. The days of the legendary Julius Caesar are long gone (Oh yes, even _we_ have heard of him. Our forefathers held him at bay, at our pastures in the east, but that part the Romans rarely mention...).

So Arthur was going to Londinium to flex his muscles. He had sent Tristran ahead with the message that he would come. I grinned to myself at the thought. Surely, that was the right choice. He could have sent any legionnaire on a horse, but the effect on them wouldn't have been the same. If you're a warlord, better play on the status of a warlord. Send a warrior, preferably the most intimidating, notorious bloodhound you have, to foreshadow your arrival.

Oh yes, send the Spook and let him make them piss their pants, by doing what he does best, which is shutting up and doing nothing.

I start smiling retardedly just by the thought. I know I might be the silent type myself, but I can read and write. And people don't start when I speak up.

Which was, apparently, why Arthur ordered me along, as well as Gaheris. We are warriors, and we can look sufficiently mean. But we are not, say, Bors.

Really, the thought of Bors in the court of the Governor of Britain makes me shudder.

"Three men in all, when you reach Londinium. It's a quarter of the cavalry force, Arthur." Lancelot had said, calmly but with clear disapproval.

"I know," answered Arthur, simply.

They had probably been over this discussion once already, before anyone else had been let in on it. Apparently, Arthur had won. Lancelot didn't pursue the matter.

"I just hope you know what you're doing," and he shrugged in dark resignation.

Arthur put a hand on his shoulder, a reconciliatory gesture. "The Woads are still lying low." he said. "There has been nothing since the garrison of Cunomorus helped us fend them off, save the brief encounter in the winter. If that is all they can muster, right now, we can spare it."

And Lancelot nodded, reluctantly convinced. I could sympathise with him. If anything _did _happen while we were away, Lancelot would have to lead our brethren, defending the Wall in cooperation with the Roman second-in-command of the legionnaires. And everyone knew that _those_ two really did not see eye to eye.

But I could see Arthurs point. You patch your roof in sunshine. If you wait until it is already raining, it'll all just become a mess. Besides, the longer the Woads are silent, the bigger the hunch that they are preparing something particularly nasty.

Those tribes really are a suicidal lot, sometimes. Arthur has a streak of it himself, though I for sure am never going to be the one to tell him.

But the women are dark, and slight, and wise...No. Don't go there, Dag.

/\/\/

_The woman steps to the side, lifting her arms, out and up, wrists twirling slowly until they meet beside her face. _

_Clap!_

_Round then, gliding and a small skip, then turning to the side, brandishing the shoulder. Carefully she keeps the line, a strange frontier of women facing the group of men. She can feel it in the air around her. Glances are thrown. Inviting winks sent off and received. Hands speaking. People moving, discreetly, in the line on both sides, getting closer to that one or away from the other._

_An absurd longing grips her then, for the dance of home, the stomping of the iron-clad shoes of the warriors. She hears her kinswoman Essailtes voice : Not like SO, Ysolde, you are stomping like a horse! Gracefully, if you please._

_Clap!_

_Round, glide, skip. Sideways turn._

_She spots her husband amongst the male group. At the back, he is not good with dancing and doesn't like it overly much. _

_He had been somewhat disgruntled the day after. He hadn't taken it out on her though. He knew she had won the game. Maybe it is in acknowledgement of this, that he has taken her with him this time. The socializings of the Governor's hall in Londinium are their own wilderness, but it helps having a young wife. If the card is played right. _

_She shows herself in the front line, knowing that even though she is not the most beautiful by the Roman standards, all the mens eyes hang by her red hair._

_A curl at the edge of her mouth. Oh yes he never got mad at her, not since the first time..._

_The woman smiles, deviously, as she dances on, memories dancing behind her eyes._

_Clap!_

_And the marks of the Roman's hand glow red on her cheek. She is sixteen. They have been married for half a year. She has refused...she do not remember now what the argument is about. But she stares at the man in front of her, eyes wide open and pupils small, sticking like pins. He looks back at her, maybe slightly surprised at himself, but confident that this will now be the end of it._

_Then the thick part of her forehead connects with his nose. He backpedals, violently, hands at his face, blood soaking his shirt._

"_DONT YOU __EVER__ HIT ME AGAIN!"_

_Clap. _

_Round glide, skip._

_Sideways turn._

_The objects resting on his desk are sweeped off, crashing to the floor. An inkhouse fly through the air, accompanied by a scream of fury. "NEVER!"_

_He ducks. The attack rages on._

_Visigothic drinking glasses. A small wooden statue. A bronze plate. Each with a mean aim, accompanied by a guttural battlecry._

_He is cowering at the door. The young thing he just thought was a little girl has turned out to be a monster, a fury, the slaugthering Irish goddess Madb herself! What kind of wife is it they have sent on him?_

_He prudently withdraws, leaving her alone in the room, her chest rapidly rising and falling. Eyes big now, like those of a cornered animal. A lost, lonely cub._

_He has departed for Londinium when she comes down, not to return for a month. When he does, she will sit at the spinning wheel working the flax. And she will be all honey, always honey, from that day forth. _

_He will feel too ashamed of his defeat, to tell his men. And he will never hit her again._

_Clap! _

_Round, skip. _

_Sideways turn._

_The mouth of the woman curls, in joyless amusement. Then her demeanor softens, as she looks to her husband, smiling proudly at her from the back. He has forgotten it all, seeing only her grace as she dances. But she knows that deep down, he will always remember. And he never sought revenge. _

_No, he was never a vengeful man. Her smile softens a bit more._

_Someone is entering the hall, further behind, where the clergymen stand. The woman snorts in disdain. They never dance, but she has seen them gawk sure enough!_

"_Pelagius! How wonderful you are here!" _

_The name reaches her ears as they greet the newcomer. The smarmy bastards. They jabber on :_

"_And who is that, one of Castus' savages you brought with you?" They try to sound cocky but the strain in their voices is there, barely perceptible._

_She twirls one more time, so as to be able to casually glance in their direction, keep an eye on the proceedings._

_Her eyes grow wide._

_Clap! _


	10. Londinium

_**You get both this chapter and the next together, in the hopes that you will forgive me :**_

_**As I will be writing my BA for the next three weeks or so, do not expect any updates during that time. Some **__**might**__** come, but then again, they might not. Not to worry, I have 13 other chapters already written (I just do not write chronologically) and I WON'T do the lose-interest-and-discontinue thing...but chapter 12 just isn't written yet, and might not be until the BA is turned in. **_

_**A generic and humble thank you, by the way, to those faithful who stick with me in the strange work of birth this story has turned out to be.**_

_**-Y.**_

_**/\/\/**_

_**Ch. 10 - Londinium**_

_Dagonet relates :_

We arrived at the hall in what seemed to be the middle of some sort of hearing. In front of the seat of Ambrosius stood the clergy, represented by a man Arthur mumbled was bishop Germanus, friend of his foster-father Pelagius.

I had heard of Germanus. He was reputed to be a shrewd politician. My impression, upon seeing him, was a man of sharp wits, cleverly disguised behind an inoffensive fatherly air.

We huddled together at the back of the crowd, Arthur deciding to reserve our formal entry for a more fit occasion, and in stead eagerly scanning the surroundings for sign of the foster-father, whom upon our arrival he had heard was here

"Bloody hell," the low outburst of Gaheris made me follow his gaze.

There, on the opposite side from the bishop, I recognized Lady Ysolde, strikingly without Marcus at her side. It was apparent that her word had been asked for, upon matters concerning the Irish. Her husband was therefore not beside her, but stood near to the right side of Ambrosius' seat. This did not surprise me, for I knew from when I had been in Cornwall, that the Governor held him in high honour.

His disinvolvement, however, also accentuated Ysolde's status. Though the exchange seemed to be kept at an unofficial level, she was presently not the wife of Cunomorus, but the voice of Eire.

She looked small and lonely, standing before the line of black-clad clergymen.

"Who is _she?"_ the appreciative tone of Gaheris betrayed him. I elbowed him to silence.

"Forget about it. She is married to a high-ranking Roman. Now shut up."

We had not heard what the question or request had been about, but I found myself hanging by her lips as she answered.

She seemed a knife, outlined sharply against the darkness in the archway behind her seat. Her deep, strange alt easily reached the ears of all present.

"It **is** unfortunate, however, that your Patricius seems to be stirring up trouble wherever he arrives. Lately I heard tell of the Ulstermen complaining that he is so absorbed in the communion with his God, that he is scarcely possible to make conversation with at all..."

Dispersed laughter.

She did not hesitate to use the momentum :

"Surely, you do just as well to put your trust in the already present monks of Iona and Skellig, if indeed you wish the Tuatha de Danaan to hear of the word of Christ. "

It started to become clear what this was about. The long fingers of the steadily growing Mother Church had ad mind for the gold of the Irishmen. She was starting to become a power factor in Rome, getting stronger each decade, and she wanted them in the flock. But this would _ipso facto _make them part of the Empire, a scenario which Ysolde's whole life and marriage had been brought about to hinder.

I found myself grinning cruelly at her evasion.

The Irish monks, to whom she referred, have no hierarchy. As I have learned, this, to Roman sensibilities, is cause enough for deep mistrust. More importantly, they do notanswer to the Church of Rome_ per se_.

But it could not be denied that they were Christians.

She smiled, sweetly, looking from one to the other. She returned to what was apparently her seat in the hall, settling, and then leaning ever so slightly forward, expectant.

The cut of her red gown was indeed of expert tailorship. The priests scuffled uneasily. Some of them seemed distracted.

The bishop, however, was untouched. No, the mind of Germanus was cool, as only the mind of a man that does not believe in any Gods can be.

"You make light of the significance of the Mother Church, mylady" he argued in what was without a doubt his most reasonable tone, his hand describing a half apologetic, half accusing gesture in her direction.

She straightened slightly again, in an almost playful manner, like it was all a good-natured banter. The edge of steel was barely traceable in her wistful tone : "The truth being my Lords, that your Mother Church is nothing in Ireland without the consent of our people. Who are our only care."

Shock. Outrage. Raised voices. The bishop and the woman locked stares through it all. The ghost of a curl at the edge of her mouth, and reluctant respect in his eyes.

She was forcing him to play in the open. And he could not back down now. The court of the Governor was waiting rapt for his answer.

He went forward then, and placed his hands on the table. She remained sitting where she was.

"You play the shrew with us, that is plain enough. But you and I, Lady Ysolde, must be honest with each other. Eire is an island. A small island just beside the vast bulk of the Great Empire. A confrontation would be disastrous. You would not force such a conflict upon us all?"

She laughed then, a silver laugh.

"How could I 'force' you, your grace? I am a woman." and she cocked her head almost flirtatiously.

Governor Ambrosius himself burst into hearty laughter at that.

She leaned back in her chair, lazily, never taking her eyes off her opponent.

The demeanor of Germanus turned from cool to icy. But the respect in his eyes grew.

Whatever the argument was about, she had clearly won it. Ambrosius was still shaking with mirth. "Your wife certainly speaks her mind, Cunomorus. We must give her the credit." And he slapped Marcus on the back, the latter smiling uneasily, while I found myself thinking _'You have no idea, Ambrosius.'_

Beside me, I heard Arthur muttering something under his breath.

"Hmm?"

"I said, she is doing well. Must've forced her old badger to take her here." He sighed. "Germanus is a well-meaning man, but I can imagine it doesn't suit him well to have to deal _with_ Eire in stead of above their heads."

I looked at him questioningly and he smiled pensively. "It is one of the areas where he and my Father disagrees. Pelagius thinks it is vanity to try to force the word of Christ on others. As do I. But Germanus wants to save the world, with or without its will." He shook his head in amusement. "Good man though, according to my father. Clever. Old military man."

I looked back at the weatherbeaten bishop, with his just a little too dark and thick eyebrows, and could see it then, by his bearing underneath his robes. _'Wolf in sheeps clothing'_, I thought, involuntarily.

But I didn't say it aloud. He was a friend of Arthur's father after all.

I would not, however, later lament that we did not meet him in person until years later, on the night when we were to be discharged...

But I am getting ahead of myself.

The crowd in the hall started disassembling. Apparently there were some kind of wargames outside. I heard someone mention the word 'gladiators'.

I had heard of these barbarous games and had no real desire to witness them. I had been here for five minutes, and already I felt that I understood completely why Arthur loathed the occasions when he could not avoid showing his face here. I was grateful, when at that moment my commander spotted someone he knew, and drew us with him in another direction. The hall emptied.

We had not yet managed to spot Tristran. I wondered where he was.

Outside, the air was an inferno of scents, perfume, food, shit, yelling, dogs barking, sellers offering wares, people moving about with barrows, children fighting in the dirt. It was mind-numbing.

It was also amazingly hot for the season. Every now and again someone would announce the coming through of a lady of the citizenship, or someone else of high rank, and the waves of people would part, only to immediately close behind the litter or the wagon or whatever it was.

Finally, we bounced into him heading in the opposite direction from us. He looked like...a hawk among sparrows.

It was obvious that he did not like the hustle and bustle and crowds of people all that much. No, that is the diplomatic way of putting it. He hated this, fervently. Even his usual stoic demeanor couldn't mask it.

How he had found us was anyone's guess.

He nodded curtly to salute us, and then handed Arthur a message.

"From Pelagius." he clarified. Arthurs face fell slightly. It seemed we were just too late to catch up with his mentor before he went to Rome.

Tristran, as is his way, showed his sympathy by giving Arthur privacy, pretending he did not notice. After asserting that our commander did not seem to have more duties for us at the moment, he looked at Gaheris and me, seeming determined to make the most of it all.

"They are fighting in the arena." he said evenly. "Properly, to the death, I have heard."

Gaheris snorted derisively. "Slaves ordered to murder slaves. Where is the honour in that?"

And I nodded, showing my agreement. _Won't do to let the Spook smell blood, not in here._

Tristran seemed to be mulling this over for a moment. Then, finding the argument reasonable, he changed course and headed the same way we were going. But somehow, his thoughts were clear : A_re we any less slaves than they? _I could have sworn that he was ruffling his feathers, the same way I had seen his bird do. She, also, was not around, plainly preferring to hunt and wait outside the city walls.

He looked like he envied her.

No, big cities were not Tristran's mug of mead.

I quickly realized though, that he had not been idle while waiting for us, the three days he had been here prior to our arrival.

I could not readily discern what exactly had transpired, but the baby-faced nobles turned as white as their own tunics when they spotted him. He did not do anything, just stood beside the rest of us looking almost docile. But then I guess they wouldn't know the difference.

He revelled in it, I could tell.

The hall of Ambrosius filled again, some hours later, and we made our entrance, very publicly stomping up the aisle in the middle of the hall, looking our worst. Arthur got his muscle-flexing done, and we stood behind him looking sufficiently nasty. It was, in fact, rather fun, and I could sense that he thought so too. Mostly because it made his chores easier.

Marcus Cunomorus approached us afterwards. He was grinning.

"Splendid display there, young Castus. That should give them something to talk about the next couple of weeks, sure enough." And he greeted Arthur, pausing momentarily to throw a short nod in the direction of me and Tristran, acknowledging our aquaintance.

_Who's the clown? _Gaheris mouthed at me, behind Arthur's back.

Arthur's assessment of Gaheris' ability to shut up at the right times had clearly left something to be desired. The man really was very much like Gawain, as brothers tend to be, but he lacked the latters sense of timing. However, there was no getting Gawain away from the anvil these days, especially what with Bedwyr being somewhat more dependant on him since the transpirings this winter. So Gaheris it was, since he was still reasonably rational, if a bit over-curious.

Presently he winced, as Tristran gently and discreetly kicked him over the shin, maintaining his straightforward gaze all the while.

"I trust the reinforcements helped?" Marcus slyly inquired.

I could see where this was going.

"They did," Arthur said, fidgeting slightly where he stood. _Rightly so! You're facing a Warlord older at his game than you, Arthur. _Bedwyr came to mind, when he was collecting one of his innumerable boons.

We kept our faces straight, supporting our commander as best we could.

"Might I ask you a favour then?" Marcus continued. "It is nothing big really, just a short-term loan the other way. If you can spare one of your lads here," and he nodded at us.

Arthur allowed himself a slight look of relief. However he remained on his guard. The nature of the assignment Marcus wanted one of us for had, after all, not yet been revealed.

He did that right away though :

"I am sending my wife home, before things go too awry between her and dear old Ironbrow. " Apparently he meant Germanus.

"I can't go myself, but she is a clever girl and knows her way home.So I just need someone to guard her safety. Now I know your guys are able people, and that one over there is the type who does not make a fuss," and he nodded at Tristran. "And he has, I believe, a debt to repay her anyway. Also," and he leaned in a bit, though I, being closest, heard him. "He seems trustworthy enough, if you catch my drift." And he winked at our commander, who seemed to feel slightly odd about standing around talking of his men like they were not present.

Arthur still looked relieved however, maybe mixed with the worried look of one who knows that this means he will have to pay off his boons in small doses. Really, this was a small favour. Marcus knew that very well, and he seemed to enjoy letting Arthur roast a bit, even if it was clear that his general disposition was friendly enough. There were worse people one could owe favours.

Arthur looked to Tristran questioningly. The other just gave the slightest of nods in confirmation.

"I do owe the Lady a favour, Arthur."

And then : "I shall undertake the assignment if you wish."

There was something odd about that. Gaheris threw me a confused look, but I shrugged, at a loss.

It did not strike me until later what the odd thing was ; that the matter of whether you want to do an assignment or not, is not something you bring up. It is usually not an issue at all. You just do it. Certainly Tristran does!

But this time, it seemed like it was him who gave Arthur the word go, in stead of the other way around.

I do not think that Arthur himself realized it. But I did.

Marcus looked directly at my Sarmatian brother at that. "Very well. If your commander will give his consent then, you may find my wife behind the door in the rightmost corner of Ambrosius' hall, in the end nearest to his seat. I believe she will shortly be having a final, more informal meeting with our dear bishop and his friends. You will report to her and henceforth follow her every order." He smiled. "I will leave it to her to decide any reward she might see fit to give you, when she is home."

Tristran just stared impassively back, like he does, awaiting Arthurs consent or decline.

Then Arthur gave the short nod that signals an order, and the man inclined his head slightly in response, then went off to get his things.

_How come he always get the good jobs?_

Gaheris was miming again. I rolled my eyes at him. Everyone with half a brain knows that one should stay clear of Roman ladies, for the only thing meaner than a cruel master is his maltreated dog. Tell me then, what does a person relegated to the status of child do, when her husband has beaten her up, ignored her, or just been away for months on end while she is boring herself to tears?

She seeks adventure with her husbands unshaven slaves. And if they refuse her, or when they start boring her as well, she screams rape, or tell her husband, and gains a sense of momentary attention when he have the unfortunate male emasculated and boiled alive.

Romans have strange pastimes. _Never _get involved with their women.

As much as I had recognizedYsolde to be out of the norm, when I had met her, still I knew that. As for Tristran, he most certainly knew it. He had become quite the expert in avoiding the clutches of bored officers-wives; the same feral aura that inspired dread in women of the lower class (ours), seemed to make the spoiled rich girls breath hard.While some might find it hard to decide which of the two evils were the worst, personally I'd vote for the latter.

No, as crazy as the Spook might seem, one thing we all knew of him : he did not have any particular desire to die.

But it might indeed be wise to instill some fear in Gaheris, when the occasion represented itself. He seemed to sorely lack the perspective.

Marcus, however, looked satisfied. "You have my gratitude, Castus," he said. Then he gave Arthur a slap on the shoulder, as if encouraging him to relax a bit. "You know, your father and I had a standing tradition helping each other out in a tight spot." He smiled, remembering. "He was a good man, your father."

They continued their conversation for some time after that, while I kept myself busy with stopping Gaheris from fondling someone married, and silently thanking Arthur for letting Tristran go.

Really, it is my solid conviction that cities are no places for sensible human beings.

But to creatures of the wild, they must be hell.


	11. Touch

_**Ch. 11 – Touch**_

_The clergy withdraws, letting the obstinate Irish elude them to resume the hunt another day._

_They will catch her, and the people for which she speaks sooner or later. They have all the time in the world._

_Alone, in one of the adjacent rooms usually reserved for such meetings, without the eyes of the court upon them, words differ quite a lot from when spoken before the seat of Ambrosious._

_Ambrosious is old, these words now sound. The Holy Father is the one to deal with now._

_Rumour has it Queen Fiona is also growing weak, in her seat at Tara. This woman is the stockade, the first line. Not her mother back home._

_They know it. And they know that she knows it._

_The woman breathes out, heavily, when they have gone. She bends her neck and places her head in her hands, sighing with frustration. The sigh turns into a small, annoyed outcry, the grating deep voice utterly different from the laughter she threw in the face of the bishop minutes ago, and she slams her fist in the armrest of the chair she sits in. _

_Then she just does it, sit there, staring at a fixed point some way in front of her, her scowl not able to veil the worry, and the utter loneliness in her eyes._

_She feels it then, the sensation almost making her start until she realizes. So silent has he been, since he arrived and during all the proceedings, that she had forgotten he was there._

_Now, the back of his hand is at her neck, right below her ear. It touches her lightly as a feather, as if he is gauging how the contact is being received. _

_She closes her eyes, breathing in, and then keeping her breath. She can feel it very clearly now, the slightest stroking, moving up against her ear._

_She inclines her head, her eyes still closed, her face suddenly so vulnerable. _

_And the touch moves down again, tracing the line of her neck. The way one would touch a shy horse. Careful, careful._

_She prances at that, rising abruptly and standing tall, back straight, trying and succeeding, finally, to control the trembling of her limbs. The contact is gone, the moment she rises._

_She stands there, in front of him, as the moments pass by. Then she turns, almost on the spot, circling around him, close, so that her cheek is brushing against his shoulder, just briefly._

_She circles around his back, lifting her hand, tracing the hairline of his neck. Then she moves all the way around, spiralling out and standing finally in front of him, her eyes searching his face, a burning in them._

_He briefly answers her look. Then he casts his eyes down, hiding them under his lashes. _

_She turns and leaves the room._

_He remains, eyes closed, ages seeming to pass by before his right hand unclench._

_He is shaking all over._


	12. Apple

_**Back from writing and turning in of BA. Happy summer solstice...you get two chapters, for your patience.**_

_**For those interested, I think 'Teardrop' with Massive Attack would go nicely with this first one.**_

_**/\/\/**_

_**12 - Apple**_

_Muirgeirn relates :_

She did visit me on her way home.

I would like to say that I was surprised by the company in which she came, but somehow I wasn't. The morning I had seen him off beside Pelagius, the two of them disappearing in the chilly morning mist, I'd had the feeling I would see him again soon.

I could guess that my brother had lent his scout to Marcus and his wife. But I found myself wondering whether or not he had done so only because he knew she would go back this way, giving his man the chance to carry an answer to the letter I had sent.

He had one, and handed it to me with his usual neutral demeanor, and then withdrew, to the shadow along the wall. There he remained, waiting, but alert, his eyes glittering in the dark.

I could sense the focus of him. If she made the slightest signal he would catch it, and any command that might reside in it. It was strange to witness.

_Late do the Sarmatians forget old debt, _I mused. She had made a good bargain the day she saved his life.

Ysolde looked rather exhausted. She sat down in my house and I let my maidens fetch her something to drink. It was a warm day. No, not warm. It was hot. Blistering. The searing eye of the God rendered golden the entirety of Avalon, making the meadows and the grass beneath the appletrees steam with the moisture from yesterdays rain. Everything had a strange, unreal quality, even considering the nature of the place itself. The Goddess was answering, her breath heavy. She was flowering.

It made all of us feel dizzy.

For a long time my guest just sat there, taking the occasional drought of the water from the Chalice well, which my maid had brought her, resting her eyes in the flickering of the sunlight falling in through the door. I found myself resting with her, almost starting when she suddenly spoke.

"Patricius plans to chase the snakes from Eire. Or so he says."

It was a statement, made with cold detachment, but I had remained with her long enough, during the autumn before my bearing of my son, that I caught the almost imperceptible trace of pain.

She lifted her head then. Her grey eyes bored into mine.

"The community with the old monks will be broken. No one anymore remembers Joseph of Arimathea and his coming to the Isle of the Blest." She nodded curtly, a sign of reverence. "The Lady of the Lake should know of these news."

I nodded, wishing her words had come as a surprise. They didn't.

"There is also a new bishop in Londinium," she announced then. She left it at that.

But I didn't need her elaboration. I knew of whom she was speaking. And I knew that the most dangerous are always those who do not believe in anything, yet pose as if they do. The words of Pelagius still rang loud in my ears. _They are getting big, these mice, and greedy._

And now they were here, in Britain. Already here. I hadn't been able to keep them away, as Viviane had. They saw Britain as empty now. With no spiritual guidance. Ripe for the plucking.

The taste of humiliation felt bitter but I ignored it. I was Lady, now. Giving up was a luxury I could not afford, or allow myself, even if I should have wished to do so. My personal vanity did not matter. Now was the time for strategy. _Shah, _I thought, and briefly glanced at the form in the shadows. The darkness of my cabin did not allow sufficient vision, to let me know if he was still watching or not. There were no windows in my house. Priestesses live simply, even the High Priestess. We do not need more than the necessities of our office, and we are content with basic comforts.

I looked back at Ysolde, nodding again.

"Thank you for telling me these things, daughter." It felt strange, using this form of addressing towards the woman who had been my midwife, but such was the custom. I felt old.

It was around that point that Mordred came tumbling in the door. Apparenlty, he had somehow managed to escape otherwise ever-vigilant Nimuë.

Ignoring the company he came toddling over the floor, grabbing a firm hold of my skirt when he reached me, so as to not fall over. He was one and a half years now.

_Strange, _I thought, _that it is indeed so long since I saw her last._ _So very long..._

A great wave came over me, suddenly. A sense of time immeasurable, of waiting and longing and something most of all resembling thirst. Thirst so parching I had to reach out for my own cup and take a deep drought, emptying it of water.

I shook my head, trying to clear my mind. The heat was intense, and I knew that this made me lax. I was not limiting my Sight, and thus I was open for random impressions to flood my spirit.

I wondered where it had come from, and looked down at my son, still clutching my skirt in his little fist.

_Muirgeirn, you fool, he must be thirsty! _

I silently rebuked myself for my inattention and lifted him to my lap, offering him water. He grabbed the cup with both hands and drank a bit from it, but quickly tired of it, and threw it on the floor, spilling most of the water in the process. I watched the drops land on the stamped clay, pondering, a low chuckle meanwhile issuing from Ysolde.

"Mordred, you little silly," I gently berated him, then gave him a hug and put him down again. He looked from me, to my guest, and back to me again. Then suddenly, his face turned towards the door. He seemed to be listening intently, then tottered around me, making himself invisible behind me, as he would always do, that day and many times after, during his growing up.

Only then, did I hear Nimuë's exasperated voice.

"Mordred... _Mordred! _You must come here! Your mother is busy right now, do you hear me?"

She gave an annoyed huff, and I found myself laughing.

"We are in here, Nimuë," I revealed, earning an aggreived look from my son when his nanny entered and upon my silent sign picked him up from behind my seat. I gestured for her to reach him towards me, and gave him one more kiss before I let them go. "You cheated me before you could even speak, little one," I snickered. "That is how you got your name. It is only fair that I pay you back the favour."

Nimuë left with Mordred, and I turned towards Ysolde again, meeting now the curious look and arched eyebrow of my guest.

"I think," I grinned, "That I will have to tell you that story, though I might have to ask the permission of your guard first, seeing as he was an accomplice." I nodded at the shadow at the wall, trying to discern his response. I still could only make out his shilouette, but judging from that, he did not seem particularly for or against the idea. However, whilst looking at him I got again the huge unsated feeling, and had to reach out for the edge of my table to steady myself.

I looked at him with mock anger. "Tristran," I said. "You know, in this house no one is asking you to stay on duty if you are in need of rest or water. Go and get some, and if you cannot find the well, ask one of my maidens."

He looked at me with something that seemed to me as bewilderment. This confused me, and I furrowed my brow in thought, wondering if I had once again misinterpreted the information I seemed to get, and if it was the heat making me seriously dizzy.

But then, his movements slow, almost reluctant, he emerged from the shadow and went out the door, leaving us, my accusing eyes in his back.

I heard a heavy sigh from the direction of my guest, and found her sitting, eyes closed in the shadow. She seemed to be cooling down now, finally.

_How long since it has been this hot? _I pondered.

"Careful with that man," I said. Her eyes snapped open and she threw me a look of suspiscion that momentarily had me stunned. Quickly, I tried to mend the insinuation. "Oh don't worry. He is as loyal as a wolf to its pack, to those he chooses as such. No, I was referring to if ever you should have the misfortune to play Shantraj against him." I grinned again, "And if my Mordred is around as well, may the Gods help you."

And she relaxed and leaned in to listen, as I told her the rest of the story.

Afterwards, I asked her further about the goings-on in Londinium, milking her of information, which, luckily she granted willingly. It would have been no easy task to pry it from her otherwise.

Finally, I had to send her out, duties awaiting my attention. Walk wherever you please. Visit the orchard. Come back in the evening and eat with me, I said to her, and she nodded, and walked down the path to the meadows and the orchards behind them, her red hair flashing in the sun. She looked at peace, relieved to have solitude.

Londinium must have been hard on her, I thought, and then had to abandon any further musings and turn to my duties.

It turned evening. Twilight descended on us, but the whole Island was still steaming, the dew evaporating even as it fell. The unreal sheen now turned into fog, covering all, rolling down the slopes of the Tor. Nimuë came to see me, and tell me that she had dinner for me.

"Thank you, daughter," I said, allowing myself a stretch from the work I had been bent over all afternoon.

I stood in the doorway, breathing in the overwhelming fragrance seeming to permeate everything outside. "Will you find the Lady Ysolde, and ask her to join me," I asked my maid. She looked slightly flustered at that, and I looked at her questioningly. "You will find her in the orchard, I think," I clarified, thinking of the way I had last seen her go. "Also," I added, "if you can find the Sarmatian and give him something to eat if he wants it."

Nimuë fidgeted nervously. "Well, that is it." She said. "I did not know what to make of it."

"_What?!" _I asked incredulously.

"You'd better come and see for yourself," said the maiden, gesturing me down the path where I had seen Ysolde go.

I came around the corner and saw her, sitting on the bench my aunt had favoured, when she had been alive. She sat there, in the twilight, seeming to savour the relative cool of the evening, but still with a strange rigidness to her. It was not a fearful rigidness, it was just there.

He sat, in the grass, some distance away from her, working with intent at something in his hands. Far enough that it was decent, but he reached an arm out towards her then. I squinted, trying to see what he was doing.

Then it occurred to me

It was an apple. Of course it was.

He was holding a knife, carefully carving it out in slices. As I looked, he bit into one slice, chewing it slowly and thoughtfully as he carved out the next.

He then took it, lifting it up, placing it very carefully against her lips, keeping it there until she accepted. She just opened her mouth, her hands remaining in her lap all the while. I could not quite make it out, but it seemed to me like one was clutching the other, amidst the folds of her skirts.

Petrified I stood, watching him handfeed the apple to her, keeping every second slice to himself while offering every second to her.

He never touched her.

I looked back again to the young woman beside me, staring rapt at the spectacle, seemingly totally oblivious to the impoliteness of her noseyness.

_Oh, but_ _I am sure you looked just like her just now, High Priestess, _I thought dryly.

"Nimuë," I snapped, a bit more sternly than I had planned, and she started and looked at me, blushing in embarassment. "Come, do not stand there and gawk like a girl. I am hungry. The Lady Ysolde will join us shortly, I am sure."

And I half shoved, half dragged the young priestess in front of me, back to the houses.

Ysolde indeed joined us, not five minutes after. She ate little, and pensively. There was no trace of my Sarmatian friend.

For some reason, at that moment, I wished Dagonet had been there. I would have liked to hear what he would have made of it all.

She left in the morning, along with her serfs. I had written a final response to Artorius, and gave it to Tristran as he followed her.

He didn't say much, but then, he never did.


	13. Marriage

_**Authors note : to fully understand everything in this piece, I advise people to read dickonfan's wonderful fic 'Of Braids and Tattoos'. It is short and absolutely beautiful. What is described in it holds value in this text as well.**_

_**/\/\/ **_

_**13 - Marriage.**_

_The wind is a breeze, here on the moor. The slight rise of the cliffs before they drop into the depths offers some protection. They are standing in the sun, the grey form of Castle Tintagel drawn against the blue sky behind them, a mile or two._

"_But I am sick of this!" The womans voice is getting sharper. "This cursed place that seems to be nothing but schemes and wars and invisible giants moving me around like a piece on a gameboard! When all I want is peace, to be left alone, have cubs, and for people to mind their own business! I will not be part of this insanity!"_

_Certainly, the man knows that feeling. There seems little honor in the skirmishes of Roman, Woad and Saxon, or of the Irish. But that is the way things are, here._

_He looks at her quizzically. Then he shrugs. "Peace you have aplenty at Tintagel. Marcus would see to it that you were left alone, if you asked him." And he returns to the tending of the knife, testing the blade as he waits for her response._

_She kicks dirt at him then, earning a surprised look from him as she spits :_

"_BUT I AM NOT GOING TO MATE WITH MARCUS!"_

_He freezes, looking at her apprehensively. _

_The wind roaming across the moor is the only thing to be heard for a while. After some time, Hawk settles in the heather some way away, mouse in her claw. She bends over it and eats with glee, ignored by the two humans._

"_Do you mean to say," He asks stiffly, "That you wish me as your mate?"_

"_Yes!" She shouts angrily._

_He puts his knife away at that, slowly and carefully. He remains for a bit as if in thought, then disentangles the dao in its sheath from himself, turning to the horse and hanging the weapon on its saddle. He pauses and then turns again, carefully tracing the few steps to her. There they stand again, wills battling or mixing, Hawk meanwhile ripping at the heart of her mouse undisturbed. He takes in the sight of the woman; her impossible waves of glistening copper, her strong, grey eyes staring right back at him, unintimidated, a true daughter of chieftains. Her naked shoulders in the sun._

_Then he pounces._

_They slide and tumble some way downhill, landing in a hollow, struggling like beasts. He holds her down then with his weight, forcing her to lie still. She makes a few attempts more at challenge, then she relaxes. There is a tear of fabric. She parts for him, like the red sea, and he takes advantage of it, leaving her with nothing to do but squirm beneath him like an impaled fish._

_The horse is thoughtfully witnessing the spectacle for some seconds. Then it loses interest and start searching its immediate surroundings for edible flora. Hawk is busy with the mouse. Some way away, an anthill is baking in the sun. The ants are legion, millions upon millions. They move so fast. The crackling and whispering of their toiling. The air full of the scent of the moor. The slightest edge of a chill._

_She is hissing. It is as if she is standing on the edge of the cliffs where the sea is thundering, hundreds of feet below, below. And he makes her jump. He makes her jump again, until she twists herself around him like a snake of the heather, digging her teeth in the soft of his shoulder. Thus she draws him with her in the fall, biting down harder and harder until he surrenders. She tastes blood. He trembles silently, and that is all._

_She adjusts herself, still halfway underneath him. Her gown has been ripped. He takes his weight off her then, setting her free. They both sit up, rearranging themselves, looking together west across the moor at the waves the wind makes in the grass. The thunder of the sea at the coast can be heard, just._

_It is then that she reaches up and pushes one braid, the longest, behind his ear. It won't stay there, immediately droops back along his cheek._

"_What was that braid made for?"_

_He turns his face towards her at that, for once seeming to have the need of using words to describe something, and utterly failing. But she just keeps looking, hand still at his face, her hair tousled and caught in the wind._

_Her arms are naked. Where she usually wears the Irish gold, tattoos now show. Small dots. Snakes. _

_He examines them. "Ysolde," he finally concludes,"of the tribe of the island to the west. I marry you." _

_It should not be said quite so, it is not entirely correct. But she nods, seemingly satisfied, and shuffles closer to him, answering, after a short silence, in the same manner._

_It is at that moment they kiss for the first time._

_**End note : From the 14**__**th**__** July to 14**__**th**__** August 2007 I will be excavating nomad culture in Mongolia... so no updates for a while, again.**_

_**I promise there will be though. This story is not finished, and it demands being written to the end.**_


	14. Run

_**Just for fun. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**Hello everyone, good to be back. Sorry for keeping you in the dark for so long, but there has been quite a lot on my plate lately, also after returning from Mongolia, a trip that completely turned my life upside down.**_

_**Chapter 14 – Run.**_

_Dagonet relates :_

"It's from Lancelot," I said.

Arthur looked, once, at the scribblings on the letter he held. Then he sighed and shook his head, though in reality this was meant as a gesture of agreement.

There was only one man in Britain that wrote latin with such contempt.

Lancelot were the only one of the guys, apart from me, who could read, but he did hate writing, and did so only when circumstances forced him.

As they had now.

"I wonder why Polonius didn't do it," I mused, referring to the Roman officer in charge of the infantry and of Camlann, when Arthur was gone. Normally, we would have expected him to do any necessary corresponding.

"Because Polonius is at the infirmery," my captain tersely answered.

"...Oh."

"Yeah."

Gaheris spat a too-dry piece of bread on the floor. "Has anyone else landed their arse in there?" he asked, inquiring, we knew, to the wellbeing of this two brothers.

"I don't know," Arthur replied, and I saw the usual wooden quality finding its way to his jaw, as it always did when he was worried. Gaheris, upon this answer, momentarily mirrored him.

"Well, we better get moving then," he grunted. "Damn. Just when it was getting funny here."

And he and I watched, as Arthur sat silently, wheels of his mind grinding.

Then, as usual, he exploded into action. "Dagonet," he said to me, "do you know if Marcus Cunomorus is still here?"

"We might be able to catch him, he was going to leave around dawn to get a good start home."

"Good, then you'll have to ask him him to travel home swiftly, and when he gets there, to send back what I borrowed him." He furrowed his brow, then stuck Lancelot's scribbled note in my hand. "And show him this. He'll have to take that seriously," he added, throwing a sideways glance at the lap of paper. "There's splotches of blood on it. I'll get a message to Ambrosius myself. Gaheris, let's get going. You'll have to finish your breakfast on the road."

I cannot relate what Gaheris replied, though I assume it was something suitably disrespectful – even as I picture him scrambling to do what Arthur ordered, while our captain was scribbling an even more disorderly note to the governor of Britain.

But I was halfway down the road at that point, and somewhat grateful that at least it was still dark outside, and none of all the shouting and bustling people had arrived to their field of battle yet.

Which was more than we would be able to hope for, I thought darkly, when we reached the Wall.

Marcus was up and about, as old soldiers tend to be. He listened politely to my rather stumbling explanations, and while he seemed to take it much too lightly for my peace of mind, I had gradually come to understand that there wasn't any way one could tell for sure, whether the Cunomorus were really unconcerned, or just playing the game. I didn't like it, but I had to admire it. I suppose it is the way one survives the wiles of Rome. One wonders how they managed to build this empire while walking over each others bones. But then I am sure a simple barbarian like me would never understand the ways of civilised people.

As they like to call it.

He got hold of my arm when I was about to leave back.

"What does Ambrosius have to say about this?" he asked me.

"I cannot say, Sir," I answered. "Arthur was contacting him even as I was sent to you."

Marcus looked at the crumpled note, which I'd passed on to him. I could see his eyes focusing briefly on the red splotches on it. He seemed to ponder them, taking his time until the point of wracking my nerves, though I am assuming that I made a good job of hiding it. I put on my blank face.

"So, soldier, what is your assessment? Does Artorius need any reserves again?" he asked me.

I nearly gawked, but I held my ground, biding my time for a while, as he had, before answering.

"I... I should think they would come in handy," I dared, casting another look at Lancelot's note, my mind racing with images of our Sarmatian second-in-command, scolding and spitting and cursing Arthurs name, all the while probably working himself to the bone.

I was glad, at that moment, that Mordred and his mother had gone back to Avalon.

Presently, Marcus nodded, and made a 'mmm' sound, as if agreeing.

"I trust your assessment," said he, "and if all is for the worse, tell your captain he might count on the aid of Cornwall province." And with a final brief nod let me take my leave.

I trudged back to Arthur in a significantly slower pace than I had originally planned, pondering all the while this change in Marcus Cunomorus' allegiances, and what on earth we had done right to bring it about.

I ended up deciding it must be his friendship to the late Castus. It still didn't quite make sense though, because it had not stopped him from being contrary earlier on. The snares of his wife had aided us, true, but from there and until this point there still was a huge difference in his attitude.

He seemed genuinely concerned with the fate of the Sarmatian cavalry now. Like we were suddenly a personal investment of his. I couldn't figure it out.

I was still pondering, when we rode out of Londinium, the low morning sun searing in our eyes. Wondering what kind of news Tristran would bring. If he would get back in time for us to hear them.

/\/\/

_It is early when the two riders mount in the courtyard of Tintagel castle. There are only those two – the token official messenger, who can be spared to be sent back to Cornwall, once he has delivered Marcus' letter to Lucius Artorius Castus._

_And the scout to take him there._

_It is when they ride out the gate that the woman seems to wake up. Grey eyes turning sharp, yet glossed over as if she sees both the world, and what is behind it._

_The riders are following the road, as it winds its way across the moor and has to go around a steep rockface, jagging forth as a tooth through the heather, at the edge of the sea. _

_But for those on foot, there is a short cut over the slope of the moor. It runs through the heather and amongst the low juniperbushes._

_The woman starts running. The sea is thundering. _

_If I reach the bend before the horse, he will return alive!_

_She falls and scrapes her knees. Gets up again. Like some half-crazed creature she stumbles across the sandy surface._

_Run._

_If I reach the bend...!_

_Breath a pain in her throat, heart feels like bursting._

_Gown stuck on a twig of a shrub, she tears at it, face contorted with despair at being held back._

_If I reach the bend before the horse, he will return alive!_

_Knives plunging into her side. She climbs over the rock, the intricate Roman braiding that __Branwain__ made this morning fallen from her head._

_Run, Run!_

_If i reach the bend... before the horse...!_

_The wind grabs hold of her mane as she reaches the top of the steep slope. Like a flag, the flowing copper unfolds, glistening in the sun as the wind whips it. _

_If I reach the bend before the horse... he will return alive!_

_She runs, tumbling. She has lost a shoe. The inner voice of a thousand women echoe hers at that moment._

_If I reach the bend before the horse...he will return..._

_Roman women. British women. Saxon women, Irish, Sarmatian._

_If I reach the bend..._

_She manages not to fall to the ground as she reaches the bend. Her cheeks are red, her breath labored. Automaticly, her hands reach up and stroke her hair, trying to make sense of the tangle._

_And she straightens her back and listens, listens, anxiously, for the sound of the hooves._

_A quiet smile spreads across her face in joy as she hears the approaching horse. She looks in the direction of the sound._

_Round the bend Damh comes, on his old working horse, on his way to the market for the wool she ordered. The wool for the winterclothing. _

_He reins in the animal, astonished._

"_Mistress Ysolde! What on earth are you doing out here?"_

_The woman looks at him and says nothing._

_**End note : I recommend/order everyone who has not done so, to watch the movie 'A Very Long Engagement', a fantastic movie. The scene therein, from which I was inspired, will make your heart beat like a drum unless you are dead.**_


	15. Reaper

_**Chapter 15 – Reaper. (4½ years before Badon Hill)  
**_

_Dagonet relates :_

It was the hoof. There was nothing to be done about it. Some inflammation.He had been lame for weeks. When Gawain took off the shoe, it poured out. A black, stinking mass.

Bors was shattered. He had been tending and nursing Hulÿe, had been completely impossible to be around for those weeks. When he came, his children fled, muttering. Vanora had commented tersely that one would believe Bors had only one big oafy kid in stead of several little children needing his fatherhood. But even she had not had the heart to drag him away from the beast.

Now Hulÿe stood, ears limply fallen to either side, looking at its human with big soulful eyes. Accepting the pain, because there was nothing else to do.

It was like a thunderstorm swept through the place. Trampling across the courtyard, through the mess, down the walkways between the barracks, until he ended up on the parapet, screaming and bellowing at some unseen responsible part. It wasn't fair. Hulÿe had always been a good horse. He had always carried him, all the way from the pastures of home, taking battlescars along with him. He had never harmed anyone. He had never even kicked a woad.

When he was through bellowing and roaring and shaking his fists, Bors came down to the smithshop again. Gawain and I still stood there, the former still holding the doomed animal by its harness. Man and beast looked each other in the eye once more. Bors was trembling, pained love and anger at the injustice of it all mingling and shining from his always so straightforward and open face.

"Right, give that here," he snapped at Gawain, who promptly left the reins to him, and witnessed, sadness in his eyes, the back of Hulÿe and his master, as they meandered back across the courtyard to the stables, the horse limping bravely on his three remaining legs.

The wide shoulders of Bors looked like someone had put a mountain on top of them.

I considered for a short span of time before following him. I knew what task was before him now. Reckoned the least I could do was be there, in as undemanding a way as possible.

I entered the stable in time to see him stand before Hulÿe, knife poised to strike, just above the throat of the animal. It stood patiently, as if awaiting, willing to accept whatever his decision would be.

Bors looked like he was fighting an invisible force. His hand was shaking, the knife in it seeming to struggle to move each single inch. The tip of it touched the soft fur of the beast.

"Bugger-all!" he hissed, through his teeth, "I can't do it!"

And with another sudden roar he threw the knife across the room, and started once more to stomp back and forth, Hulÿe and me witnessing his distress as he berated himself.

None of us were intimidated. We both knew him.

"Sixteen years of loyal and faithful service he gave me, and I can't even bloody do him that last favour! Not even that!" And he stopped to kick furiously at one of Jols' waterbuckets, venting his bitterness at his defeat. "Hundreds and hundreds of blueskins I've killed, but a damn horse..."

And abruptly he sat down on the overturned bucket, hiding his face in his hands, rubbing his temples, trying to hide the tears I knew were threatening to burst forth.

I looked at him and then at Hulÿe.

"I'll go get Tristran." I said.

When we came back again, Bors still sat where I had left him. His eyes were red and swollen now.

He lifted his head when we came, shifting his gaze between us.

Then he sighed heavily, in relief and in grief, and stood up. He went to Hulÿe one last time, putting his brow against that of his most faithful servant.

We waited for some time. Then I collected the knife from the straw, and handed it to Tristran.

He took it. Looked at me, and then to the horse, and its master.

I grabbed hold of Bors' arm.

"Bors. You're coming with me over to Vanora. Now," I added, before he could muster any resources to protest, and so lengthen his own torture.

He obeyed meekly, all fighting spirit suddenly gone from him. I half dragged, half pushed him out.

When we reached the door I looked briefly back at Tristran, giving him the nod.

He nodded back at me, waiting.

Bors and I left.

_/\/\/_

_It is the man who leads the knife. It is him who receives the horse. It floods over him. All the red. Like rosepetals, a warm, rythmic tide as the head of the animal comes to rest in his lap. _

_A spasm in a leg before it is still. Its eyes grow dull, like polished glass. _

_The mans face is unmoved. His brown, slender hand cups the damp muzzle of the animal, taking the breath as it gives it up._

_All is well._

* * *

_**Authors note : Written to the tones of "Fix You" by Coldplay. I wrote it in early June this year, knowing that when autumn came, I couldn't procrastinate it any longer. **_

_**I had him for 20 years. Being with him to the last is the toughest thing I've ever done, but I'm glad I did it. Now he is asleep outside in his field, under the hawthorn, until they fetch him tomorrow.**_

_**All is well.**_


	16. Branwain

_**No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**I had hitherto assigned a random, but incorrect name, to Ysolde's maid, now corrected through all chapters:**_

_**/\/\/**_

_**Chapter 16 – Branwain.**_

_Muirgeirn relates :_

The tide is low, but I can see clearly, because the moon is still in the sky.

I am walking along the edge of the vertical fall at Tintagel coast, relishing the night breeze, searching out mandrake roots. They have to be harvested at night to work properly.

Something make me close in on the edge of the cliff. Maybe it is the thundering of the waves further along the coast. It is not as loud now, because of the low tide, leaving a small stripe of beach just below a certain stretch of the cliff.

My heart is in my throat but still I am drawn to the edge. I can sense the depth there in front of me, in the silver dark. Everything seems to be the colour of blue.

This is what I see :

It seems they are playing a game, on the small stripe of sand just below the cliff. When I say 'they', I mean my usually assigned guardsman on my travels, and the hostess whose house I am visiting.

At first i can't quite figure it out. But after some time it occurs to me : it is a game that consists of keeping exactly the same distance. Seven or eight feet, as far as I can gauge from where I stand.

They look like wolves prancing about, taking turns to make sudden moves. After some time scrutinizing, I realize that somehow the incoming waves are mixed up in it as well, an arbiter adding its own kind of rythm to the game.

Ha!

My word, they are not humans at all. More like cubs in front of a den.

I don't hear anything, not even laughter. I can't even see if they are smiling, yet it is so clear they are having fun.

Oh, she nearly had him fooled there! Never thought I'd see him backpedal like that.

She is punished immediately however, having to jump for sweet life from the wave coming in. And oh does he think it serves her right.

I feel a strange ache inside, and am abruptly ashamed, as if I am watching something not for my eyes to see.

Still no sound, just the waves.

It is clear she has played that game before, alone. He is not nearly as nonchalant as she is, but he keeps up. He learns quickly and with grace, like when I told him of the shantraj.

The whole thing seems strangely haphazard. Coincidental, like it was just something that emerged from the tide gradually. Maybe they just bounced into each other down there.

I know as much that it is not something planned. It is not a tryst. Not as such. But still I feel a sudden fear that someone, apart from me would see this. They seem so exposed down there, and somehow this shouldn't be seen.

The distance between them is exactly the same as when I discovered them. I am amazed at their precision.

I have to cover my mouth not to laugh, when a final salty spray from the sea soaks most of the lower part of her skirts, making them heavy, and her significantly slower and more clumsy.

An owl hoots then, and I look up and out across the moor briefly, trying to gauge from where. The owl often shows the way, when herbs are to be collected by nighttime.

But it is not an owl, but the shadow of Branwain that greets my eyes. She is like a vigilant ghost in the moonlight, and she looks at me, one index finger on her lips demanding silence.

As far as I know she is the daughter of one of the Cornish fishermen of Tintagel village, but the way she looks at me now leaves me warned. I am being watched. My discretion with what I have seen will be monitored. And if found wanton, fisher's daugther or not, she _will _find ways of making me pay.

Humbled, I lower my gaze, and can just make out the movement of her skirts, as she withdraws, across the moor.

Gathering my own skirts to continue my search, I throw one last look down at the beach.

And I see that it is empty now. Maybe they have gone just below the cliff so I cannot see them. Maybe the game has moved, further down the beach.

Maybe someone have won the game, or they just got tired of it, going their separate ways.

The tide does not tell, and neither will they. That much I know.

/\/\/

_Branwain relates: _

I was, I think, the only one who always knew, beyond doubt.

Surely, others must have had eyes in their head, but as for the comrades of myladys hunter, one was slow to share his thoughts with anyone, and the other, plainly, possessed the naïvete of so many men. In short, he had not the faintest clue.

As for the Lady of the Lake, she came in our house often enough, though I must say that I found her often too preoccupied with the usual schemes and wiles of the noble folks. She saw what she saw, but she did not want to see. Maybe because it did not serve her an immediate advantage.

Forgive me for speaking so out of turn, for indeed I do revere our Lady of the Lake (though far less powerful is she than her predecessor).

However, while I may be the daughter of a fisherman, I am not dense.

You see, there are some who are supposed to be making the decisions. But we who are at their call, we still have ears and eyes in our head, though our voice is not asked to be heard. During the years where he came in our house, either with Muirgeirn or on mylady's or the masters request to Arthur, I got to know Tristran, because we share this fate. Neither of us are people in power. But we listen, and we hold our tongue.

Mylady knows this, and she makes use of it. Not so to the same extent with Lady Muirgeirn, and that is to her own disadvantage.

I look now at mylady in wonder. Indeed, it may seem she is as hard as the cliffs of this place where she lives, with her old husband and with us, the Cornishmen, who love her.

I remember Damh's occasional snide remarks. He questions, sometimes, if she has a heart, or if she is just polished marble, through and through.

But I know mylady better than that dimwitted old drunkard.

It is for the sake of her that I will tell this story, so all that hear it will know why I serve her, and no one else. I will tell of it so that everyone will know that what Branwain will tell, later, of the proceedings in Eire, and the slaying of Marhaus, the kin of her lady, is true.

Mylady is a bit older than me, though not by much. Perhaps she had lived one or two cycles of the year before I was born. When she came to Tintagel, neither of us were much more than girls.

The eldest son of my Lord still occasionally resided at Tintagel then, though it bored him and often put him in a foul mood, and he let those who were below him in the scheme of things feel it.

Constantinus had not got his pious nickname back then. The old lady had raised him to the faith in the Christ, sure enough, but he had been in Gallia since then, and made war with the tribes there, and the life of the soldier was still in him when he came back.

It is a dangerous mixture, that one.

They hated each other from the very second she was lain in the bed of his mother.

He could do nothing about it, of course, because she was now the sworn wife of his father, and so she was in place of that very same mother. He had to obey her, even though she was twenty years younger than him, at least. How he hated it.

It is no wonder that he never learned anything but hate.

I was the maid of the old lady Cunomorus, before Ysolde came, and let me tell you that I never knew of any woman who could crush and tear apart the will of a being with just a single look of contempt, a single word of disgust. Once, I dropped one of her hairpins in the tub in which she took her bath, while it stood filled to the brim with boiling water, waiting to cool off before she would enter it. She simply took my arm in her grasp, and plunged my hand in the searing heat, saying that I would pick it back up.

My own mother cried when she saw my arms that night, and my father raged and carried on and clawed impotently at the sky. He wanted to go to Marcus himself, but even then, Marcus was never home. Back then, indeed, he avoided his home like a dreaded prison.

But just as much as Constantinus had hated his mother, just as much had he worshipped her.

Ysolde changed all.

It was to be my doom that I was her maid. And that my hair is the same shade of copper.

The first time she took me in her arms, I sat on my knees, clinging to the edge of the cliff, staring down into the inferno of the all-consuming tide, imagining how it would be to be pommeled against this very cliff, like a rag doll. If my eyes would be open or closed when they found me, as I knew they would, on that certain bank of sand to the south west.

She was out on one of her long lonely walks, and found me there, and closed in, and took me into her arms and rocked me.

"I am going to have a baby," I sobbed, but she hushed and cooed and crooned, and forced me to relax and lean into her. We have the same colour of hair, but she was always stronger and bigger than me.

He could never have taken her on, I thought. Not without a fight. She would not have let him. Never.

Only after a long long time had gone past, did she ask me.

"Who by?"

/\/\/

"_So," she says, "I suppose it was in here that you raped her."_

_There is something inherently comic about it. The grown man and the barely adolescent girl, but already she is taller than he is. He has the stature of his father, though without the stout charm of the latter. He has his mothers moping, ever-aggreived face._

_He looks disturbed at her directness._

"_You put more stock in the words of that little floozy than in the words of your own son?"_

_He spits the last words. It is clear they do not really sit well with him, yet he find himself in a position where he has to invoke them._

_Her stare is dispassionate. "We both know I am not your mother, Constantinus." She measures him up, her gaze strangely adult, like she is assessing whether or not she could really have given birth to a person such as he._

"_Christ... she has done it before, and everyone here will tell you this!"_

_She smiles, then. There is something cold in that smile. It is not pleasant. It gives him the willies._

"_According to your Christ, a man must become the husband of the woman who carries his child."_

"_She offered herself to me. I can't marry a girl like that!"_

_He is aghast. But the lady in front of him seems impenetrable to common sense._

_Impenetrable. The thought sends an unbidden shiver down his spine. It takes hold of his groin. He feels bewitched. She would, he thinks, suck all juice from him if she was allowed. It is the fact that he beat her, by way of her little ninny of a maidservant, that irks her. So thinks Constantinus, son of a more virtuous mother than this vixen._

"_Indeed, she would seem a bit young for you. What is she, twelve? Thirteen?" _

"_Was the whore of Babylon ever a virgin?" There, that ought to teach her!_

_Her observation is cold, dry._

"_At any rate she is pregnant, and I hardly believe the child was put there by the Holy Ghost..." (blasphemy! He is struck dumb by her shamelessness) "...and since you, yourself, seem to agree on this, I have already taken measures to help her be rid of her condition, if she wishes." _

_He finds that he is gawking before he can stop himself. She can't be serious. Here, in his mothers own house, nurtured by the breasts of its walls, a demon? A succubus, shamelessly defying the will of our Lord right in his face? Is it not said that it is Lillith herself, who takes the unborn children to mock Adam, whom she refused to obey?_

"_My father will have a thing or two to say of this, when he gets back," he threatens._

_But the smirk he receives in response does not serve to calm him, or to make him feel more safe. _

"_He already is back," she says. "He came back this morning, while you were still asleep from the wine of last night."_

_The blood leaves the face of Constantinus as he regards the girl in front of him, looking so treacherously innocuous. But indeed, it is like her eyes glow in the dark with the fires of the Inferno itself, wicked glee alight in her face. _

"_He said that the treatment of his wifes serfs is her own province. And so is her house."_

"_I want to speak to him!" the son demands. "He must know the details of the circumstances..."_

"_He has already left again." She cocks her head and smiles, wistfully, as if they are discussing the success of a particularly enjoyable family get-together._

_Then she turns and reaches behind her, lifting a satchet from the dark heavy surface of the oak table that stands there. His satchet. The one that is always packed for him when he leaves for Rome, or for Londinium._

_The flames of the fireplace glitter in her eyes as she hands it towards him._

_He freezes up, stubbornly, refusing to take it. Finally, it lands in front of him, followed by the scarlett cloak signifying his station as officer in the Roman army._

"_Get out." Her voice is calm, horribly calm. _

"_And I never want to see you on Tintagel again." _

_It is barely more than a whisper, yet the words sear like glowing iron in his ears. Her eyes bore into his, making him feel like awls are being inserted behind his eyelids. The magnitude of the betrayal makes his mind reel as he stumbles backwards. _

_A demon has taken over his fathers house!_

"_Get out...!"_


	17. Mother

_**Usual disclaimers apply. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_** Chapter 17 : Mother. **  
_

_Queen Fiona is getting old._

_She has to sit or lie down most of the time now. She eats less and less. Still, the authority of her voice rules Castle Tara, cellar to roof._

_She has been queen for many, many years now._

_She coughs. A wave of her hand is all it takes. Then her maid is at her side, with a bowl._

_Fiona spits something out into it. It looks bloody._

_The queen is old. And soon, she will be dying._

"_Thankyou dear," croaks the voice of the old woman. _

"_Now please go. I must have a word with my eldest daughter."_

_The maid looks from the queen to the woman, her own thoughts for a moment flickering to the surface. But then she withdraws._

_The eyes of the queen follow her out the room, before the old woman turns her face to her daugther._

"_I see you blossom," she says._

_The woman does not answer. She knows her mother does not want her answer to her observation._

_Queen Fiona did not ask. And if she ever does, it is for confirmation, not information._

"_It seems Marcus made a good husband after all," the crone nods to herself. "It is a satisfied woman I see here."_

_The woman regards her mother dispassionately. Her face is bland, as she listens to the older woman congratulating herself on the decisions she has made._

_Queen Fiona sighs. "The only downside I can think of then, is that there is only your sister left now, to be Queen when I am gone." And she looks at her eldest daughter, letting it sink in what sacrifices indeed are made to ensure her happiness at Marcus' side._

_The womans face remains impassive. A slight mocking twitch escapes the corner of her mouth. But the queen does not notice it._

"_Your sister does not have the heart for being Queen," sighs Fiona. "Her heart is so warm. She is so innocent." The Queen shakes her head sadly. "And she is at Bruigh na Boinne now, by the druids. She loves it there. I could never take that away from her..."_

_The woman looks at her. There is something resembling detached pity in her eyes._

_It is as if a flash of uncomfortability crosses the features of queen Fiona at that. A memory._

_Guilt? Remorse?_

_But it is gone, forgotten, as quickly as it came. Fiona jerks her head at her daughter again, demanding now her full attention._

_It is politely granted._

"_Your brother has left us, Ysolde," she says, suddenly._

_The womans eyebrow lifts half an inch or so. Fiona seems to be waiting for her answer._

_When it does not come, she continues. _

"_Your brother has left us. He has settled in Less Britain, across the sea. He will not be High King after me..."_

_And again, she waits for her daughters response. The responsibility that she always taught her. She must know very well what this means. There is only her now._

_But the woman just shrugs, almost imperceptibly. "I guess the house of Marhaus will rule when you are gone then." There is no trace of interest in her voice._

_The queen looks at her daughter aghast. Her eyes are wide, mortified._

"_What__**are**__ you saying, daughter?!" she demands. "You know Marhaus is unfit to rule!"_

"_It seems to me he is able enough" the woman replies calmly."He is a sensitive and loving man. If you are so sure my noble sister could not do it..."_

_The queen spits on the floor. "Marhaus is a fool for his wife," she sneers derisively. "The Roman slut he married around the time when your poor father died." A stiff look between the two women at the mention of that._

_When your father died, say Queen Fionas eyes. The man who was rightly mine, but always favoured you over me, since the day you were born. And it became his death, didn't it?_

_He loved all of us equally, mother. But that was never enough for you._

"_I believe it was around that time you had that marriage arranged, yes." answers the woman serenely, ignoring the flash of panic, followed by anger in the older womans face._

"_I did," snaps Fiona "But clearly, the bitch knows nothing of gratitude. She got an Irish husband, who listens to her, yet she has done little but create havoc, attention seeking little fury that she is." She looks at her daughter accusingly. "Not that you would know, seeing as you did not even once visit the island of your birth, since your marriage."_

_Oh, my queen. Such righteous anger, such aggreived petulance when things do not turn out as you planned._

"_Mother, you know very well that the wife of a Roman cannot come and go as she pleases," the woman responds dryly. "And the permission of her husband is not often granted."_

_The queens face is contorted with derision. "Oh yes, surely their barbaric customs prescribe that," she huffs. "But you are my daughter. And you always knew how to make yourself heard."_

_But were you listening?_

"_I have found out how to," says the woman. "That is why I am here now, and not at Tintagel."_

_The queen nods, satisfied. "Yes, yes, you are here." And she is broken off, for a spell, by another coughing fit. Waving her hand as it shakes her entire body, she signals for the bowl again._

_The woman seems to be pondering for a couple of seconds. Then she grabs the bowl and holds it to her mother._

_Another mouthful of reddish-black fluid. It is consumption. It could perhaps have been cured, if discovered early, and using the right remedies. A certain mushroom. _

_However, that time is long passed now._

_The queen props herself up on her pillows, turning now towards her daughter. _

"_You are here. And you know now what you must do."_

"_Do I?" the voice of the woman is slightly mocking. Her interest feigned._

"_Yes, yes. Surely you do," answers the queen, dismissively._

"_You must go back to your husband now, and find a way to be rid of him." She looks at her daughter, harshly. "I know you have been happy there, Ysolde, but always remember that he is a Roman! He would think that what is yours is Romes, because you are his wife. And you are the heir to the High Throne of Eire. It is your duty to see to Her welfare."_

_Whose welfare, mother. Eires, or yours?_

_The queen pauses for a moment before adding : "Marcus is old. Surely, it would be only few years till you were a widow anyway."_

_And she looks at her daughter, the order in her eyes evident. _

_When the woman does not answer, a tinge of pleading sneaks in there as well. The woman registers it with the ease by which one witnesses an everyday phenomenon, something so usual and regular that one can tell the passing of time by it._

_Only now does queen Fiona look at the belly of her daughter, her brow furrowing thoughtfully as her trained eye gauges the slight concave shape of it._

"_Egads, it seems you are with child, daughter." The queen is surprised. "Why did you not say so?"_

_I did, mother. Upon my very arrival. But you did not respond._

_A hoarse, short cackle escapes Fiona. "Why the old rascal!" She shakes her head in wonder. "So you managed to beget by him." Her eyes twinkle with humour as she regards her daughter with some respect. "I must say I am surprised. I should have said you would fare better at that craft with a younger man. Say, like the spooky savage you brought with you." and the queen allows herself a snicker at her own joke. "Though of course, that would never do, the offspring would likely as not be half beast."_

_The woman smiles indifferently. You have become very much like the Romans, mother. The Romans, of whose wiles you always warned me._

"_Very well," says queen Fiona. "That settles it then. We cannot have Roman stock inheriting the High Throne. You know the arts. Hemlock, I believe, would be a suitable choice. Not easily traced. You will dispose of Marcus and come home to take up the seat at Tara, keeping the siring of the child a private matter." The old woman nods to herself. "And allow me to die with peace in my heart."_

_The woman lets the last words blow in the wind for a while before she answers._

_She rises then, bending over the sickbed of her mother. Even dying, Queen Fiona looks so secure in her power. Her eyes sharp and calculating, and so safe in their authority she does not even have to hold a stern demeanor. To outsiders, she could easily be mistaken for a nice old lady, asking a favour of her daughter._

_But the woman knows better._

_She towers over her mother at that. As if for the first time it is suddenly clear how much bigger than Fiona she is. Tall and strong, like her father was, before he died. As he stood in the prow of the boat, teaching her how to cross against the wind._

_And at that moment, it is as if Queen Fiona sees it as well. For a moment horror fills her eyes. _

"_You have heard my prayer to you daughter," she gasps, her fear for a moment betraying her, so that the iron hand beneath the silken glove is showing. "What is your answer?!"_

_The woman looks at the dying, no longer making any effort to hide the cold pity mixed with contempt that is now evident in her face._

_Indeed. What daughter of Fiona would deny her mothers will, to protect the Roman she was sold to, so many years ago? What daughter would choose coupling with a beast rather than become as magnificent as her mother, the Queen of Eire?_

_The woman bends fully over the old form involuntarily recoiling into the soft pillows, until her mouth is just beside the old, withered ear. Her whisper is tender, as she stares into the darkness and the dust of the deserted hall behind the sickbed._

"_You made me, mother. As surely as had you fashioned me out of clay." And she smiles to herself. It is not a pleasant smile._

"_What do __**you**__ think my answer will be?"_


	18. Essailte

_**Usual disclaimers apply. No copyright infringement intended.**_

* * *

_**Ch. 18 - Essailte**_

_Branwain relates :_

"It is like this every year," said the Saxon noble.

We were at the mead hall of Marhaus, and once again someone had gotten in disagreement for the champions piece of the roast.

Let us first get aside any misunderstandings : we, of course, were off to the back, hovering in the periphery with the rest of the servants, but this, in turn, gave quite a view to the huge crescent mead-table which took up the most of the room. Why the Saxon, whose attire betrayed that he was of high station, had elected to stay here in the shadows with us, I had really no clue. Though he had been in late, which might be one explanation why he had not taken a seat at the table – his cloak was even still drenched from the rain. It was storming outside.

I suspected though, that he was mostly being cunning; if you want news and information before you dive into the fray, mingle with the servants and be nice to them, and they might decide to slip you a snippet of valuable knowledge.

That is, if their master or mistress are not aware of this very practice, and makes sure that the maid or servant or guard in question has nothing to complain about. Which I certainly hadn't, and as for my male colleague... well, he got the only kind of payment he wanted, and in full, of that I was certain.

I could feel his tall, silent presence behind me as he stood, as much on the lookout as I, perhaps a bit uneasy about such a gathering of people, but all the same eagerly drinking in the impressions. I do not know if patrolling the border at the Wall is as boring as the sleepy port of Tintagel, but we at least get the shipments from the south each month, and the news along with them. I doubt they get even that at Camlann fort. Most excitement there is probably of the kind one would rather be without.

Indeed, both of us were clearly in a much more interesting place than we were used to.

So I leaned forward to listen to what the Saxon had to say, because he seemed to know his way around this place. I had never accompanied mylady to Eire before – mainly because this, the occasion of her mothers impending death, was the first time she had gone back here. And I knew only what little phrases in Irish I had learnt from waiting on her.

The table was set and I could see across the shoulder of mylady, who sat right beside the Lord and Lady of the house, and survey the rows of people, while having an easy time to get to her if she gestured for my assistance. There was an awful lot of noise. Somewhere a musician was playing the uillieach pipes, and the smoke from the braziers billowed under the ceiling, colouring the girders in a thick black layer, and making it hard for the poor sods from the kitchen to find their way in the gallery, when they brought the servings.

Tristran's bird was outside, though she usually perched on the girders of the hall back at Tintagel. I couldn't help sympathising with her. Smoked poultry is not a particularly dishy food - especially not for the bird in question, I would think.

The whole room smelled of food, of roast and of sage and other herbs, and the mead was foaming when they poured it. I was hungry, but it was still long til our dinner. We would eat what was left after the feast. Usually, this would be more than enough – no Irishman of status would dare expose himself to the possible label of being a niggard, and certainly not the brother of the High Queen, maybe soon to be High King himself.

In the space in the middle of the crescent, two Irishmen were squaring off, in contest, I assumed, of aforesaid significant piece of meat.

"They will want the judgment of the Lord and Lady on who will get it," the Saxon said in my ear. He had a low mumble and his pronunciation of the latin was not the best, especially what with the noise, but at least he spoke slowly. I nodded, hoping he understood the invitation to continue his explanation. He obliged. "See, he is signalling their contest to start now."

Marhaus made a vivid gesture, and a deafening silence fell, instantly, over the hall. We watched. I could sense that Tristran's interest was perked too. He shifted, discreetly, behind me, to get a better view. Not that it was hard. We had by far one of the best vantage points, and he is not exactly a short fellow.

The two warriors began circling each other, crossing their own steps as they went. Then, as if on some invisible cue, one stepped up and started on... some dance which I later found, when asked to explain, that I was short for words to describe, but I shall try all the same:

He stood straight as a stag and then he started an amazing stomping dance, his feet and legs moving with incredible intricacy and speed, producing complex rythms to be hammered out on the floorboards, while his upper body remained almost completely still. He had iron-plated boots, yet he moved with such grace and ease that I was not really surprised when I threw a casual look along the line of servants and lordship alike, and found the majority of the women present gawking barefaced.

The silence while he performed seemed to stretch on for minutes, while he carried on, unstoppable, tapping out his challenge on the floor, ending with a _ thud! _As he put down the shaft of his spear in front of him, and glared at his opponent.

Then the other took over. He carried himself with less force and more grace, though the sense of barely contained fire was present in the display of both men. Once again, I could sense the rapt attention of my companion behind me. I threw a short look behind and upwards and saw him, his eyes fixed on what was going on, and shining with curiosity. I smiled to myself. His comrade had once let slip that the Sarmatians had their own dances, and that Tristran was not at all inept within the field. In fact, said Dagonet, the same Tristran had once danced a dance called 'Eagle', supposedly, I gathered, one of the hardest, but most beautiful, dances of the Sarmatian tribes, and he had made the legionnaires at Camlann piss their pants, partly with the mere spectacle, partly because he kept at it until he dropped.

I was not sure I believed it then, but I did now, seeing his eyes smolder like that. I realised why : this was a place where a warrior was still, if only in ritual, a highly regarded member of his clan or tribe. Much as I suspected it might be amongst Sarmatians, from what I had heard of all their rituals at least. And it was not little. Words of the savage customs of the cataphract soldiery travelled even to Cornwall.

'Soldiery', yes. Being a warrior in Rome's bread was being a commodity.

_Thud!_ And the contest stopped, all gazes settling now on the Lady of the house, Marhaus' wife Essailte, who was evidently going to be the one to decide which warrior of her husbands _fían _had done better.

The Saxon chuckled behind me : "Back home there would not have been all that prancing about. Each man in his bare shift on a _holm,_ an islet, oron an ice flake on the fiord, and whoever is standing at the end gets the cut." And he chuckled again, a low and rusty sound, before continuing : "But I see the practicality of this solution. Good men do not fall down from the sky these days."

I hesitated for a moment, weighing whether I could dare it, before deciding that this Saxon seemed a relaxed enough sort.

"Forgive me for being so bold – but why _are_ ye not home mylord? Surely, only the summer months are suitable for sailing and trading, and they must be missing you at home?"

His face darkened, and for a moment I feared that I had bitten off more than I could chew, and would be told off for my impudence. But then he merely shook his head slightly, his blond flaxen hair remaining still, hanging down sadly on each side of his somewhat weatherbeaten and battered face. He was tall, like most from those parts seem to be. "I don't think I am welcome at home right now," he said, with a tinge regret, leaving me wondering what exactly he meant. He threw me a sideways look, spotting my curiosity, and once again obliged it, continuing wryly : "I have been here each summer for the past ten years. This time the winter came quicker than we had anticipated, and I am stuck here until spring. It is no use trying to sail back until then, and even so we will be crossing against the wind all the way home." He sighed, in mock exasperation, not really seeming to be terribly upset about it. "So they will have to eat the horse roast in Balður's honour without me this year. Ah, the Lady seems to have reached a decision..."

And we all stretched necks again, watching as the Lady Essailte rose, self-conscious and shy, to point to the last of the contesters, the one who had been the more gracious. I felt strangely uncomfortable when I looked at her. It took some time before it occurred to me why.

_She is enjoying herself far too much. _

And sure enough, there seemed to be some kind of dark glee in her face when she handed the cut of the heart to the one declared the victor. I cast a glance at the other Irishman, who had been bested. Personally, I would have elected him, but no one asks a Cornish fisher's daughter for her opinion on something like that. I watched him now, as his visage clouded, betraying the deep seriousness of the struggles behind these rituals and proceedings. But he kept his manners and made a curt nod to the victor, before bowing stiffly before the Lady and withdrawing. I did not see him again the rest of that night, and I wondered what became of him.

As for Marhaus, the Lord of the house, he seemed to me strangely subdued through the whole kerfuffle, even as the noise and singing and carrying on resumed at the table.

I have been told that he was the greatest warrior of Eire, and looking at him I doubted it not. He was not young, but he was toned, well-built, with an alert but too sombre expression. He watched his wife now as she bestowed the compliments on the newly elected champion of his court. She reached out her hand, and the _fíanna_ took it hesitantly. _He is afraid to refuse her, _I thought with surprise. I was just trying to figure out why, when with an abrupt move Marhaus rose, and, striking quicker than a snake, pushed the victors hand aside. It was short and to the point. He threw his warrior a searing glare, and the other cast his eyes down and withdrew hastily. Behind him, I saw Essailte sitting demurely down again.

I did not like it, the way she seemed to change, one minute a splendid Queen, the next a coy maiden, and I nudged my companion gently in the ribs, trying to signal that I had observed something. When I looked up once more I saw that he was way ahead of me.

So was the Saxon, it seemed.

"Her mother was Roman," he grumbled, with a kind of reluctant respect. "She is a damn fine survivalist." Then he shut up, as if suddenly remembering that he was talking to someone who might carry his words to other, powerful ears. "Speaking strictly off the record, of course," and he winked wistfully at me, as if asking for my mercy. Then he once again surveyed the commencements along with us, before continuing without looking at me: "Which of the ladies do you serve, maid?"

It turned out that mylady answered his question for me, by gesturing at me that very moment. As I excused myself and moved to serve her, I saw the Saxon going soundlessly 'ah', before he politely removed his gaze, settling it in stead on my companion.

Tristran studiously ignored it, still intent on what was going on in the rest of the hall, though it was obvious that he had noticed he was being observed, and by one of high rank, who might rightfully expect to be entitled to his attention.

I thought I saw a sparkle of mirth in the Saxons eyes. As if he felt amused by this passive obstinacy, rather than insulted.

Then I forgot about him, as Lady Ysolde's whispered instructions demanded my attention.

"I am going to withdraw for a bit now, along with my aunt, to talk of the matters concerning my mother," she said softly, eyes still scanning the faces around the table, a noncommital smile in place as she inclined her head slightly towards me.

"Mylady..." I wondered briefly if I should tell her of my observations concerning the same aunt, but then decided against it. They were family after all, and I knew that mylady had spent much of her final years before marriage, being fostered and educated by the Lady of this house, and she cared deeply about her. She had spoken of Essailte more often than of Queen Fiona. "We have the same name," she had once remarked. "two different versions, but it is the same name, the same meaning."

"What does it mean?" I had asked.

"She, who is fair," she had muttered, gloomily, and I had not been able to think of anything to say.

Essailte was fair. She was, in fact, stunning, especially taking her age into account. She was nearing her mid-thirties, old enough to be a grandmother. She would have been maybe a decade older than the foster-daughter who had been sent to her back then (I worried, in fact, for mylady. Rightly, she should have had at least one child of ten years by now...it was late for a woman, to expect her first at that age).

But Lady Essailte was still a stunning beauty, darkeyed and with the frailty to her body and movements, which seems so in fashion these days, and which my tall and strong lady would never own. Mylady would really have been more at ease dancing the dance I had just seen the_ fíanna_ perform, rather than the contained movements which I knew Essailte had been the one to teach her. She mastered them, sure enough, but mylady was a statue. Graceful the way polished marble is, not like a flower. A horse forced to canter when all it wants is to lie down and have a good roll in the dirt. Though no one ever seemed to notice that but me.

And well, perhaps one other.

Now, she excused herself to broody Marhaus and withdrew to talk to her fostermother, of matters which I would have loved to relate were it not that they spoke in the gibberish of the Irish, of which, as said, I understand but little, if I strain my hearing. And though I am ashamed to admit it, I really was much too hungry.

However, it turned out that I never got to overhear them. For she looked at me once more when we were outside of her door, and suddenly sighed, exasperated with herself.

"Branwain forgive me! You haven't eaten. Go to the kitchen, get some roast in you. I am sure Tristran has already gone."

I went, grateful for having an observant mistress, and left her to the lady Essailte.

Something which I regret doing to this very day.

/\/\/

"_Dearest!" the Lady of Mannanans Isle envelops the large woman in front of her, the other almost struggling to get air. But Essailte doesn't see it and doesn't care right now, because finally, her fosterdaughter is here. And she is not alone anymore._

_Then she pushes away and measures the figure of the woman in front of her, the niece who was sent off so long ago, only a big girl at the time. She is satisfied, for Ysolde has grown strong._

"_You are with child," she notices immediately, and the marble face in front of her is lit up, suddenly, by red cheeks, as the woman beats down her lashes, an unusual shyness suddenly taking her over._

_This too, Essailte notes immediately. A reaction as of a woman who enjoys her condition, maybe even enjoyed the circumstances of its creation. Essailte ponders this._

_How old was he again, that Roman? _

"_So... how many little ones did you leave behind with Marcus, coming here?" she prods. "Could it be there was a granddaughter for an old lady who never had any herself?"_

_The woman laughs at that. "Oh aunt, stop it!" _

"_How many? Come now, you cannot hide such important matters from me."_

_The Lady of Cornwall looks a bit uncomfortable for a moment. Then, hesitantly, she answers :_

"_There was... a daughter..."_

_Essailtes face grows serious. She waits, tactfully, for the continuation. When it doesn't come, she merely reaches out and strokes the still barely noticeable crescent of the younger woman's abdomen. "This one will stay with you," she promises, with ease. _

_It is worth it making promises like that, in Essailtes world. She herself was never pregnant, but it is a womans lot, she knows, that sometimes the child she has carried will go straight to our Lord in heaven. Her own mother, she remembers, miscarried more children than she kept, and Essailtes memory of her is that of red swollen eyes, so much so that there was scarce attention left for those children who lived._

_Essailte shakes off the memory. It is not a befitting thing to think of, certainly not in the company of a breeding woman._

"_So... no little ones back home?"_

"_None," the tall woman admits, her face growing suddenly hard again, and Essailte scrutinizes the shape on her belly once more. So, no luck for ten years of marriage, until now._

_Interesting._

_But she changes subject, making efforts to thaw again the demeanor of her fosterling. She was always like that, this girl. It takes someone who understands to unravel her. Someone who knows what it's like. Someone like Essailte, herself married to a man she did not choose. It matters little that Marhaus always tried to please her, be gentle with her, not even trying to share her bed without her consent after the consummation of the marriage._

_Of course, she rarely gave it._

_She did not choose him! And now he is getting old, Essailte thinks bitterly, while she questions the young woman in front of her of things in Cornwall, of the servants which she brought with her, of this and of that, and watches Ysolde slowly relax, secure again within the walls of the castle where she was taught of the duties of her womanhood. She has forgotten most of her Manx, upon learning Cornish in stead, the woman confesses. And Essailte nods and smiles, and forgives. She herself never learnt the tongue of the people of this cursed island. She resolved not to, long ago. Who would expect it of a prisoner, held against her will? Who would even care? She converses with her husband in latin, like her mother with her father before her._

_Before long Ysolde is laughing and giving in, seeming relieved after the gloomy visit at her mother's at Tara. Fiona is dying, that much is clear, and Essailte, for one, will not mourn her. _

_Her eldest daughter on the other hand..._

_How I love her, thinks the wife of Marhaus. What a wonderful woman she has become._

_And she sits beside Ysolde, warming herself at her glow, clutching her hand until the other starts complaining that it hurts. Only then does she let go, a tiny bit._

* * *

_**Fían**_** : Old Irish, 'warparty'. **_**Fíanna**_** : warrior.**

_**Holm : **_**Old Norse, signifying a small islet in the middle of a body of water like a river or a fiord. **_**Holmgang,**_**'walking the islet' was/is the traditional nordic term for single combat, as it is described by the Saxon here (the word still exists, at least in Danish :-P ).**


	19. Mordred

_**Usual disclaimers apply. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**My apologies about such infrequent updating. MA-degrees demand huge amounts of time. This story is NOT abandoned, and it is NOT in any way finished. Like some J.K. Rowling mini-me, I have had the final chapter lying ready and finished since the beginning, and I won't abandon things until I reach it.**_

_** But matters tend to be complicated by chapters not necessarily coming in a chronological order. I am, all in all, not sure if this story is even supposed to be told strictly chronologically.**_

_**Anyway, thank you for your patience and understanding.**_

* * *

_**Chapter 19 – Mordred.**_

_Muirgeirn relates :_

It was never me that raised my son. From the minute I laid him in Dagonets arms I knew that it would never be me.

More surprised was I when I found out, as the boy grew, that Tristran also did seem to make his influence felt, albeit in his own ever indirect ways. He never openly allowed for the emotional intimacy that Dagonet seemed to naturally invite. I remember once, witnessing from a distance a very strange kind of interaction between Tristran and my son, as Mordred was apparently trying to follow the scout somewhere. I don't know where Tristran was going, but I do remember the peculiar dance which Mordred's following him gave rise to. People who have been watching the ways of wolves for any longer period might find it recognizable.

Tristran would stop, and abruptly turn towards Mordred. The boy would duly withdraw, until Tristran would turn his back on him again. Then Mordred would again take up the pursuit, as silently as he could, carfully gauging an even distance. Tristran, of course, would easily hear him and half-turn again, with slightly more of a jerk. The third time, he would advance a couple of steps threateningly towards the boy, who would back away, still maintaining the same exact distance.

Usually, Mordred got the message after some dancing around like this, and would turn, walking back through the gate with a forlorn expression. There were times where the battle of wills would last longer than others. But Tristran did not tolerate being followed. His claim concerning Mordred had been a favor done me, not the boy.

Dagonet, however, was undisputably Mordred's father.

_Would that he had been, _I thought, sometimes, but then we do not decide such things. The Goddess does. And I never felt so carefree around Dag as to turn to him with the demands of Her, when she was in me. I would not allow it. He somehow was much too precious for that.

I remember how he, from the very beginning, was the one Mordred would run to when there was something new to tell. I was still _Mother_ if he had something serious about which to seek my counsel, but it was Dagonet who comforted when a knee was scraped, Dagonet who saw him through his first victories, and defeats, be it when fighting to balance on his legs, or later fail to make the the big stable dog do what it was told. It was Dagonet who raised and loved my son, and to this day there is no changing it, even should I have wished it differently. But I don't.

It was Dagonet who came around that day - Mordred must have been four or something - and waved at me to follow. He led me to the stables, where the sight met me, of a little, stubbornlooking fellow, arms folded and legs solidly planted before the entrance to the empty stall in which Jols usually stacked the hay.

In front of him, looking equally frustrated and bewildered, stood Jols, his arms spreading out in defeat when he saw us.

"Mistress Muirgeirn," he pleaded accusingly. "Will you not try to control your son?!"

Behind me, I could hear the repressed chuckle of Dag.

"What seems to be the problem?" I inquired, looking around to maybe gain an inkling of what was going on.

Jols looked at the hay behind the boy sourly. It was stacked to the roof of the stable, I saw, and apparently Mordred had gotten it in his head not to allow anyone to make use of it.

"I need to feed the animals," Jols reasoned tiredly. "But the little rascal puts up a fuss, and he even bit me. Now it is solely for the sake of him being your son, that I did not chase him away with a good beating!" he underlined. "So if your ladyship would please take charge of your child so someone else can get about getting their work done, I would be grateful indeed!"

He said it respectfully, but anyone who knows Jols also knows that if reason and respect does not get him anywhere, he will take a piss at your rank and do what he must to get about his business. It is, after all, one of the main reasons he is the horsemaster at Camlann.

I turned to Mordred then, not really sure that I would have any more luck than Jols, but with the inconvenient realization that he was right. It was my responsibility.

"Now why won't you let Jols feed the horses, Mordred?" I asked, reasonably. Scolding Mordred doesn't work. He will just shut up and get cranky and uncooperative, and he can hold a grudge longer than anyone else I know of, save maybe Lancelot (and I am not even sure of that).

He was a very intelligent child, and spoke both british and latin without fault already then, though it would occasionally mix up and every now and again a smattering of, to me, incomprehensible words would sneak their way inbetween – the sarmatian influence of his fathers, I assumed.

He looked up at me with his black eyes, making me feel weighed and measured as he always seemed to do.

"The horses can have their hay when Tristran comes home," he maintained.

I furrowed my brow at him. "Now why would that be necessary, Mordred?" I demanded. "Jols needs to get his work done, and Tristran might not be here until tomorrow. Do you want the horses to starve?"

The boy huffed disdainfully. "There is hay on the loft. I will help him fetch it myself. But you must not enter this stall."

"Now wait just a minute young man...!" and I was about to start getting angry with him, when I heard an outburst of surprise from Dagonet behind me. Turning around, I saw the big man, the tallest at Camlann, point to the top of the stack, just below the rooftile. He looked astonished. Then he started laughing, the all too rarely heard, rich sound of his laugh echoing from off the walls of the stable.

He had to lift me up in order for me to see it.

Balancing from off his upper arm, I saw the nest.

Hawk had been out celebrating the coming of spring, it would seem, because there she sat, all ruffled plumage, and glared at us challengingly, her feathered body narrowly covering what I could just make out to be a small batch of eggs.

No one but Tristran would even have the remote possibility of being allowed to move the nest. She would attack if we tried. It would all end in tears, as certain as Rome and the taxes.

_Not to mention, _I thought, _what her human would do if he came home and found out about us having done it!_

Jols ended up having to fetch hay from the loft. Mordred, true to his word, helped him, the small strenght of his little body not really making that big of a difference, but his eagerness to be helpful softening the stout heart of the horsemaster.

When Tristran returned, the next day, he gingerly made his way to Hawks nest, and, after an agreement with her had been reached, carefully moved it to somewhere more suitable. He carried the precious load as if it were his own children - narrowly supervised by the sharp amber eyes of the mother-to-be of course.

I do think it was around this time, after we told him of who had been the defender of her in his absence, that he started teaching Mordred the odd lesson, now and again. It figured, by Tristran's reckoning, that the boy would have to have climbed up there to discover Hawks nest, and anyone being able to do that and not disturb her was in possession of a talent that ought to be trained. It was reason, pure and simple.

That was what he _said,_ anyway. However, Hawk's acceptance my boy as her champion, I suspect, played an equally big role in her human's decision. If not bigger.

Of course, we let him think we didn't know.

/\/\/

_Mordred relates :_

I wasn't very old. But I remember, quite clearly, the night I first talked to Tristran.

It was the week before my finding of Hawk's nest.

I dreamt, and it was a frightening dream. I woke up from it crying, and felt alone, because I knew Dagonet was not home. He was in Cilurnum and would not be back until perhaps the day after tomorrow.

I reckon I must have thought, briefly, about going to my mother in stead, but decided against it. Mother never felt as safe as Dagonet. And certainly not while this dream was fresh in my mind.

I got up and plodded aimlessly down narrow halls, sniffing attempts to control my urge to cry. It was when I found myself at the stables, halfway up the hayloft, that I let it slide.

I sat down in the hay, and stared hard at my feet dangling in thin air, the clean-swept stomped clay way below. The chewing on the straw by one of the horses (the one who was having guard duty while the others slept, no doubt), felt calming.

However, with the feeling of safety came also the renewed urge to cry, and I gave in to it now, certain of my solitude.

I think he let me hear his approach on purpose. Or maybe it is just impossible, even for one such as him, to not betray presence when moving amidst bundles and piles of fresh, sweet-smelling hay.

As soon as I spotted him, I recoiled, horrified at having intruded on what was apparently a personal space of his. I'd had no idea that he, too, apparently frequented the silence of the hayloft as a safeplace.

I tried to dart past him and get down to the floor again, but his hand lashed out and grabbed my upper arm, the jolt of the sudden stop almost making me lose balance. For a moment I teetered in terror at the edge of the loft, the backs of the horses and the dirt floor seeming a mortally long way down.

Then he reeled me in, putting me squarely on my backside where I'd sat before, and waiting a couple of seconds before letting go, signalling with all clarity that he expected me to remain where I had been put.

I did, at first confused. However, a few moments after I remembered myself, and immediately I started working furiously at wiping away my tears with the sleeves of my shirt. Those tears weren't anyone's business. Most certainly, they were not to be witnessed, by him of all.

"What did you dream?"

I stopped my furious wiping and just turned my head and looked at him, gaping with astonishment.

How could he know?

But he knew. That was plain enough, as he wrapped a straw around one of his long fingers and then put the end of it between his teeth, chewing and watching me with an air of serene expectance which made my ears glow. I was grateful for the darkness in the loft.

I wondered if he would say something more, or maybe rebuke me for not answering the question of an adult right away. But he did not say anything.

Below us, the grinding sounds of the chewing of hay underlined the silence.

I sat, trapped. He waited.

"I dreamt..." I mumbled at last, and was surprised to hear myself speak.

"I dreamt, that I had a huge wound. Someone had stabbed me in the chest, or sort of in the side... here..." and I showed him, pointing out the location on my body, taking opportunity to examine myself that the bleeding, gaping wound was no longer there.

His face was in darkness, but I could see the slight glinting of his eyes, like those of a cat, as they followed my hand. He did not say anything.

I sat for a while again, before I had worked up the courage to continue :

"And then...and then..." and I fought the sobs angrily, intent on not crying again, not while he saw it, "and then there was... a huge thing coming out of it... a sort of plant or vine something, and it was like it grew from within me... and it opened out into a flower... and then I wanted to show my mother, because I knew she was standing right behind me, and maybe she could heal it or remove the vines...and then I turned around to show her the wound, and..."

And I stopped again, to swallow, and swallow, and swallow. It did not work nearly as well as I wanted it to.

For a long time once more, the horse below us chewed, and he waited, until I could tell him. Of how in the hand of my mother, I had seen the sword, dripping with my blood.

After that, he made a small 'hmm' sound, like he was pondering my explanation, and we sat in silence for some time again. I relaxed somewhat, feeling already better at having told the dream to someone, and even secretly excited at sitting here, so close to someone who always demanded such distance. I stole looks at him from where I sat, taking the opportunity to examine him up close, while he was apparently lost in pondering what I had just told him.

Then, after some time, he got up, and without a word retreated back again, disappearing into the darkness at the remote end of the loft.

I felt the disappointment like an almost physical blow. I had hoped, I realised now, hoped wildly that he would say something about the dream. Something which would have made it better and made the nauseating sensation, and the strange lump in my belly at the thought of my mother go away.

Lowering my neck, I was preparing to get up and leave the silence and safety of the hayloft, when he returned.

He sat down again, legs crossed, in front of me, and snapped his fingers to get my attention focused.

Then, without further ado, he spoke.

"The dream you have had is a very powerful vision," he said.

I listened, puzzled, wondering whatever he could mean. Though he had now returned, a part of me still felt a threatening disappointment. 'A very powerful vision' sounded like something which my mother would sometimes say as some kind of final explanation, which would mean she just did not want to talk about it.

But Tristran, apparently, did not intend it to be a final explanation.

"With my people, I was told that not many young men are given that dream," he continued. "Or perhaps, the Elders just did not know what to say, and so that was their excuse." There was the shadow of a bitter smile on his features, as he sat in silence for a while again, me awaiting his continued explanation, hardly daring to breathe.

Then he seemed to become present again, and looked directly at me.

"The sword in your dream," he explained, "will be your protection. See..." and I saw that he carried his dao in its scabbard, as softly and reverently as he was to carry the eggs of Hawk, some days later.

This, apparently, was what he had gone to fetch from the depths of the darkness.

Its leather straps looked peculiarly empty this way, unstrapped from his person.

I think my eyes must have become the size of mead-mugs when he held it out towards me, offering me its grip.

No one – _no one! - _ever touched Tristran's sword. It was simply so off limits that it could just as well have been of another world. It was an ever re-suggested dare amongst the children of Camlann, the concept of trying to acquire it, or even touch it. A challenge that no one, to wit, had ever risen to, much the same way no one had ever seriously tried to get past the legionnaires to light the beacon, though everyone always talked about doing it.

None of us wanted to die, after all.

I knew that Dagonet had once taken a knife from him, to stop him from hurting himself by accident, supposedly because he had been under the influence of drink, though I found even that story hard to believe; Tristran did not get drunk. I'd never seen it happen, and Gilly, when asked, said that story was a load of bollocks – he'd never seen it either.

And Gilly, to my standard, was old.

I looked at the grip, anticipating some possible ruse, trying to figure out what the catch was. But the grip remained in front of me, and for all my effort I could spy no mischief in the glinting there in the darkness, under the wild fringe of hair.

I reached out, and clasped the grip with a feeling of sanctity. After some effort, I drew it. It slid effortlessly enough from its scabbard, but its curved shape made it necessary to follow a precise curve in the move. It took a couple of attempts.

He held the scabbard still, patiently, all the while.

Once drawn, I held it in front of me in awe. It was much heavier than I had ever imagined it to be, from watching him handle it. It is, in reality a light weapon, but a small boy only rarely remembers his own size.

"This," Tristran introduced, "Is Palomedes. He is my sword."

"Pa...Palom-edes," I stuttered. It sounded Greek, the language of the philosophers, which my mother had tried to teach me. But this sword was not of Greek make, that much I could tell.

He seemed amused. "He has travelled far in his time. That is why he has a strange name."

He let me hold it for a spell. I was bedazzled. The edge of it glinted, vaguely, from the moonlight streaming in through the stable door below. It drew me in. Reaching out, I let my thumb glide gently along it, barely pressing hard enough to feel it.

It felt like silk.

Suddenly, apparently deciding it was enough, he reached out and took it rather abruptly out of my hand. The decisiveness of his movements made me realise even more that I had been shown an honour previously granted to few, if anyone else at all.

He held it in both hands, its edge prudently away from us.

Only then did I feel the sharp, white pain. I looked down at my hands, and saw that my thumb was bleeding.

He threw it a single, unimpressed look, then focused on the dao again, sheathing it, and turning towards me again.

"It is prudent to be very careful around the sword of another man," was all he offered by way of comment. Then :

"Your sword is your protection. As for the wound," he continued, slowly and clearly, willing me to listen carefully, " It will give you great pain," he mumbled, and I realised that he was talking as much to himself as to me, "a great pain which is impossible to hide."

I looked at him in awe, trying to fathom what it was that he was telling me.

He turned his head towards me again, the tangle of his hair not hiding the sudden glowing of the eyes beneath them. He fixed me with his gaze, like a mouse in a corner. I could do nothing but listen, and look at him, realizing, with sudden painful clarity, that for some reason this man knew exactly what I was talking about. Not only that, but this dream, the terror and the great beauty of it, had only been an initial preparation. A taste of what was to come.

"Great pain." he said. "And great courage. Great power." And I closed my eyes and tried to picture that power and that pain. And within my mind's eye, I saw not myself, but him, the wound in his breast mirroring my own, only bigger, deeper and redder because he was, as of yet, so much bigger than I. The flower growing from it was an almost vulgar fleshly colour, yet it shone, so brightly it would have seared my eyes, were it not that they were already closed, and all of it within my mind's eye.

He had his sword in his hand, and it glinted with a precise cruelty that made me gasp, and immediately open my eyes again.

He sat there still, in the dark. Quite peacefully, and Palomedes was in its sheath.What was more, Hawk seemed to have joined us, perhaps being awoken from her sleep under the roof by our mumbled conversation.

Now, she sat on his shoulder, her beak stroking tenderly against his brow, while he sat, eyes closed, giving himself over to her attentions.

He had taken out a tiny flute, and was playing it, a few, select tones as if more to himself and her, than any listeners.

I knew that flute. It was the one which was made of Bedwyr's arm.

I looked at it and shuddered. Bors always said it sounded like the voices of the dead, and I found that I agreed. There was something inherently creepy about the soft moaning of that flute.

Hawk was looking directly at me. There was something possessive in the way she stroked against her human, an observant intelligence which might just be the trick of my exhaustion and the soft moonlight from the stable door.

Suddenly, she scared me.

"Tristran..." I whispered pleadingly, not daring to break eye contact with the bird, lest she...I did not really know what it was I was so afraid she would do.

"...Who is she?"

And at those words, it was as if Hawk cocked her head at me, slightly insulted, and she took off and flew back to her place, somewhere on some girder under the roof. He opened his eyes and stopped playing as she flew, staring after her, a deep pain and a still deeper love mirrored in them.

Once again I had the strange uneasy feeling of witnessing something others had not, and would never, witness.

"She..." he mumbled, as if musing himself on what was the correct answer to my question.

"She is my wound. She is what gives me power."

The way he said it was strange, making me wonder if it was Hawk he spoke of, or someone else.

Knowing what I know now, I am not sure he himself knew.

I did not tell Gilly and the others about Palomedes, the following day.

* * *

_**End Note : Those curious about the dream had by both Mordred and Tristran, can listen to the Sting song ' The Lazarus Heart'. Or watch the movie 'The Fountain'. Or google the shamanic concept of 'wise wound'. Or generally sit down and think it all over for a bit. **_


	20. Deirdre

_**Usual disclaimers apply. No copyright infringement intended. **_

_**Once again sorry for the rare updates. MA dissertation takes its toll.**_

* * *

_**20 - Deirdre.**_

_She dreams._

_She looks down on the ground below and sees the woman with the shattered skull, a red flower defiantly sprawled in the dust. _

_She knows this woman is herself, even though she looks different. For she faintly remembers the white flash of light before her eyes just before her body landed there, on the ground._

_The protruding rock face above her corpse carries a blackish, sticky mark where it connected with her temple. The chariot in which she rode stands parked somewhere off to the side. The horses in front of it whinny in restless anxiety, but they remain._

_The two men standing above her broken form look somewhat forlorn. Their heads are bent, their clan tartans covered in dust. One of them, the eldest, carries a scarlet cloak, the sign that he is a chief, or a king. He looks angry, most of all, in that petulant way that reminds her of Constantinus, that step-son surpassing herself in age. Clearly, he is disappointed at this turn of events._

_His younger associate just makes her feel dimly amused. A somewhat bland looking warrior, a thick expression on his slack features. Like a drunkard that doesn't comprehend what he sees._

_A man appears, looking down from the top of the cliff face. He is approximately the same age as the eldest of the two below, but carrying himself with a calm vitality lacking in his peer. She thinks, in her dream, that he reminds her of her long gone father. The expression on his face as he regards the scene is one of controlled, but deep, disapproval. He huffs, a non-verbal sound of restraint. The sound makes the two men look up._

_The scarlet-clad's demeanour changes from bemused to thunderous._

"_Mac Roich!"_

_He forces the name over his teeth as if it is something distasteful. The man called Mac Roich just looks back at him, unaffected. He gives a slight nod in the direction of her body._

"_Nice work there, Connor. I must remember to tell Cormac when I see him. I am sure he will be proud of such capability from his sire."_

_The king's face is hard. "Tell him what you please, Mac Roich. He is no longer any son of mine."_

_The man on top of the cliff smiles sadly. "No. You have Sétanta, the rabid Hound of Chulann. You won't miss a son so comparatively ordinary, I am sure."_

_The king seems to pretend he hasn't heard it. In stead he continues, in mock thoughtfulness: "Come to think of it, Fergus Mac Roich, as well, is no longer neither king nor a man of Ulster. Is it not by the skirts of the harlot in Connaught that he now hangs?"_

_The eyes of the Mac Roich glints momentarily, as in dark amusement. He shrugs. "I pay my dues," he replies cryptically._

_And as he eyes the broken form on the ground with a mixture of sadness and dry resentment with the whole situation, she wishes she could tell him that she is no longer in pain. She will be with her mate now, the mate whom the dimwit next to Connor killed on the orders of his chief. For a moment she closes her eyes and is afloat in nothing, hearing only the wind in the long grass where the three men stand, and she thinks of him, dark and strange and so utterly defenseless when she pounced upon him in the tall grass. A fair heifer, he'd called her, half in jest, but he had not been able to hide the want in his eyes, that want which made her ears roar with the sound of her own blood, the blood now sprawled on the ground below..._

_The anger of the chief makes her focus on the men below her again. His voice is low, dangerous._

"_You are a brave man, Mac Roich, to show yourself within the borders of Ulster. By rights I should make you feel the consequences of your cheekiness."_

_The man above merely smiles bitterly. "You could, Connor. Indeed you could. And wouldn't it just be crowning a good work? First the sons of Uisnech, then the wife of one of them, and finally the man who was stupid enough to let you be in charge in exchange for the doubtful pleasure of shagging your mother..." and the man sidesteps the rock as it comes flying past his ear, a lifted eyebrow his only comment as he looks disapprovingly down at the fuming man below him._

"_The pathetic little slut killed herself!" Connor spits._

_Mac Roich seems to ponder this for a moment._

"_She did?"_

_He looks at them then, appraising them in turn; the big thug, his expression as blank as ever, and the haughty Chief of Ulster next to him. _

"_I'd probably have done the same," he concludes, earning another scowl, this time not only from Connor, but also from the thug whose slow-grinding mind seem to wake up as he starts to suspect that his honour is somehow being questioned, without being able to quite pinpoint how and why._

"_It is just as well," Eogan the warrior finally mumbles, a sour expression on his face, like one who has found the meat dish empty just as it reaches his place at the table. "The old fop Cathbad was right. She's brought nothing but trouble."_

_The eyes of the Mac Roich grow cold at this statement. _

"_Not to worry, Connor. I will be on my way, there are others who approve of my company more. But you would do good in keeping that usual rashness of yours in check until you have talked to the Hound, whom I happened to speak to this very morning some five miles from here, guarding your borders."_

_The kings shoulders go rigid. His eyes narrow. "And what," he demands, "is that supposed to mean?"_

_Insecurity sneaks up on the king. What is it that the Mac Roich has told his fosterson, the best warrior of Ulster? Suddenly, king Connor feels weak, limp. Fear has grabbed hold of his heart._

_Connaught, was it? How many men can they muster, if they should decide on it?_

_Next to the king, Eogan the warrior suddenly looks pale, as if a sudden illness have come over him._

_Like the debility that legend says would come over the Ulstermen for the first nine days, like the pangs of childbirth whenever war threatened. _

_Maybe it is just an old wives' tale. Maybe Eogan is feeling limp now because he believes in it, and otherwise would not. Maybe Fergus Mac Roich is full of it._

_Connor looks up at him, wide-eyed, ashen. "How many? Fergus, how many?"_

_The Mac Roich doesn't answer, merely throws one last head-shaking look at the woman on the ground, above whose destroyed skull the flies are now beginning to adjourn._

_There is pain in his eyes. _

_She knows that he is thinking that no, none of this is the dead woman's fault. It is __his__ fault. He should never have abandoned his kingship, never have trusted the man below. His oath was broken. He failed to protect Naoise Mac Uisnech. 'You sold your honour for beer!' She remembers the words now, as she hurled them at him, cradling the body of her mate in her arms, senselessly screaming. _

_She wants to tell him now, that it isn't his fault after all. That this is just how things turn out sometimes. That some people just will not allow others to be wild. Some people cannot love. They feel only envy, and it is for Connor he should mourn, not her._

_Connor, who has sunk on his knees now, shaking. Feverish panic in his eyes. "Fergus, for the love of God, at least tell me how many!?"_

_But the Mac Roich has left. There is only the two men, and above them, her._

_And then, the pain shoots whitehot through the woman's abdomen, and she wakes up._


	21. Lice

**_Usual disclaimers apply etc._**

* * *

_**21 - Lice.**_

_Branwain relates :_

There were lice in the servant quarters of the hall of Marhaus.

It is not that it is terribly unusual. Rather, one might have been surprised, had the place not housed a single one of the annoying little creatures. At Tintagel, we are at constant war with them. I believe the only reason that my mistress does not have them, is that she has me comb her hair relentlessly, every single day, and so I spot them the moment they are there.

And because she is a good mistress (and because all my efforts would be for naught if she didn't), she takes it upon herself, afterwards, to comb my hair with the same meticulousness.

But it really is not unusual. What was unusual here was that Tristran came trudging into the room with an air of very controlled annoyance about him, just as we sat about spinning, mylady and the lady Essailte conversing while I, frankly, was dozing off somewhat.

But there he was, sure enough.

He briefly buried a hand in the unkempt strands of his mane and then scowled around him in a petulant manner which had me biting back a snicker.

He then walked, calm but very decisive, to our mistress, stopping directly in front of her with a dissatisfied glare. All the while rather rudely ignoring the lady of the house, who sat right beside her. I saw that the latter did not quite manage to hide her offense.

"They all have lice," he proclaimed, his voice no less than his appearance holding the same edge of firmly controlled disgust.

Mylady stared back with surprise. Then, after having awaited a response from her for a spell, he clarified : "I have had to sleep on lice-infested straw." His ire shone through a bit more sharply at those words. It was clear he was not used to being attacked by the little bastards. I wondered why, because surely the barracks of the ninth legion would be even worse in that respect.

Later, of course, I would find out it was because he was so much outside, sleeping away from his comrades even when he was home.

Understanding finally seemed to dawn on the face of our mistress.

Lady Essailte, however, was clearly not of a mind to be ignored.

"My apologies, Ysolde. I have not been harsh enough with the maidservants," she smiled, and I saw a slight flash of anger in Tristran's eyes at her implied chain of reasoning as to how he had acquired his unfortunate lodgers. I looked to my mistress and realised that for some reason, she had not even registered it. Neither the sting of her fostermothers words, nor his response.

Essailte shook her head. "The responsibility is mine. I knew it was time, but the poor little things always weep so heartwrenchingly. However," she continued lightly, "Not to fret, the solution is right at hand." And smiling serenely, she merely took one appraising look at the offending tangle of braids and tousled hair, and pragmaticly picked up her sowing shears, handing them towards her foster daughter.

Tristran regarded the shears with a mixture of insult and utter abhorrence. Mylady merely looked blankly at them, not understanding her fostermothers point, until the latter grabbed her hand and put the shears in it.

Then Essailte got up, shaking her head regrettably while she smoothed over her skirts. "I shall see to it that the rest of the problem is solved," she said, her stern look settling first on her own chamber maid, in whose eyes the sudden look of panic made me shudder involuntarily.

There was something wrong. Something deeply and utterly wrong. For all the maidservants of this house, it was mandatory to have their hair at all times completely covered. Only the mistress went about with hers visible. I had tried to ask the other girls why, but they merely bowed their heads and said it was just the rules.

I believed I understood now. But it still didn't make sense. Amongst the men, there might be quite an infestation, sure. But how would the maidservants be a primary threat, with such headcover? And surely, if worst should happen, the women had combs, and could groom each other?

I looked once again at my own lady, once more feeling frustration that somehow, for some reason, she had not seen it. Lady Ysolde had absentmindedly put down the shears and were going distractedly through the folds of her own dress, searching, I knew, the fine-toothed bone-carved comb which she and I would always use to keep ourselves free of such unwanted company.

But Tristran had seen it as well as me. Our eyes briefly met above the head of her, and I saw a flash of puzzlement and anger in his once more, while my own mind raced, trying to make sense of why a woman as astute as my own lady seemed so strangely inattentive to what was happening around her lately.

While Essailte shooed out everyone else in the room, leaving Ysolde with only us, the two who served her, I once more let my mind list up all that I had ever heard my mistress tell of this woman, her fostermother.

The wife of Marhaus, her long dark tresses shining in the firelight of his mead-hall, handing over the champions portion. And behind her the maidservants, heads covered and bent in what I had first thought was perhaps an Irish display of servitude.

Suddenly, I felt very sick inside. Getting up, I briefly asked for mylady's permission to take my leave, which she granted with a nod as absentminded as the rest of her disposition had been of late.

She looked pale, and I wondered briefly if her fertile condition were affecting her in some bad manner. The thought sent new shots of worry through my mind. _This should not be so! She is strong, healthy, perfectly built for breeding..._

Shutting the door carefully behind me, and swinging my cloak over my shoulders, I started making my way down the hallway, quiet as could be. I got out just in time to see the lady of the house disappear around a corner. She hovered, graceful and frail as a flower, but her hands were brisk and effective. There was a terrifying strenght in them that I had not noticed earlier.

As I made my way through the house, I started hearing it. The snipping sound of shears. The muffled sound of subdued weeping.

Suddenly I felt claustrophobic. Pacing my own strides, I found myself heading for the courtyard, and for the gate which would lead out of the stronghold of Mannanans Isle. I longed for the wind of the sea on my face.

/\/\/

_As the maiden leaves, the man is left alone with the woman. _

_Standing still, awaiting her, his eyes are intent on her strange distractedness. _

_There is a pondering expression on his face. _

_Then she lifts hers, meeting his eyes. There is a tiny stool upon which she keeps her sowing basket. She lifts the basket off and with one foot pushes the stool forward. A curt nod signals for him to sit down in front of her. It is best where she sits, with the light of the fire to aid her._

_He obliges, shaking his shoulders in place, a throw of his head getting a few wayward strands of tousled hair out of the way. It is quite a mess she is about to deal with._

_But she has done so before._

_She puts a hand on his neck, gently bending it. Then she ties up her own hair with a piece of ribbon. The hair out of the way, she leans into her work, her soft, strong fingers burying themselves in the untamed wilderness in front of her. She separates the locks. They are rough but soft, so soft, like hair at the neck always is. Fur and feathers. _

_The eyes of the wolf grow docile, half closed._

_And the room falls quiet, save the crackling of the fireplace. _

_As time goes by, the comb doing its work patiently, braids being carefully sorted aside, the cheeks of the woman regain colour. The sounds of the muted weeping outside does not reach in here. It is as if the castle itself has forgotten this one room, tucked it off in a safe, secret corner of its being._

_Perhaps it is the sudden, painful awareness of her long thighs on each side of him, her knees almost aligned with his shoulders. Perhaps it is the weight of his cheek against her loin, the untameable dark tousle brushing against the swollenness of her belly. No one knows._

_But when she is finished, and the comb has done its work, her eyes close, as in surrender. And she buries her hand in that tousle, buries it deeply and contracts it into a fist. _


	22. Battlegrounds I

_**Usual disclaimer apply. No copyright infringement intended.**_

_**After sitting for almost a year with strange fragments, I have given up trying to make the story be chronological in any linear sense., or fill out the gaps. Apparently, it doesn't want to be told that way. The Wheel doesn't turn that way.**_

* * *

_**21 – Battlegrounds I**_

_They manage to drag each other in there. It is only a place of relative safety. A hollowing underneath a huge rockface, protruding out of the body of the mountain. They let the animals run. They will find their way home, and there is little chance the woads will ensnare them. They are not interested. The horsebreed of the steppes is too temperamental and hard to manage to those who do not know its ways._

_The fog is dense, they can't see anything. The only consolation is that it is the same for the woad. _

_But in the mist, every sound is amplified a hundred times. The constant dripping of water from the leaves of the trees. The ominous guardianship of the fir-trunks, rising in each direction and gradually disappearing in the mist. _

_Within the tiny cave, underneath the outcropping, they huddle, and listen. It is dark and quiet, like a womb, or a grave. The humidity clings to the leather. It hangs in drops from the end of the mans braids. It mixes with the blood in which they are both smeared._

_His comrade is shaking. None of them is sure which has lost the most blood, but they know they have no chance of leaving this place. They cannot move fast enough. They might not even have the strenght to get home. And woad arrows are precise, and they are deadly._

_They can hear the hushed sounds of feet, running through the undergrowth on all sides. They sense the silent net of blueskin craft, as it is dragged through the area, trying to catch them as salmons. The net sweeps over the face of the rock, them below it. _

_And finally, even those sounds disappear, and only the liquid dripping from branches is left._

_Still, they dare not move. They know that their fishermen are outside, somewhere. Giving up the hunt, but only for now._

"_Parsifal..?" the blackhaired man questions in whispers, hoarse pain in his throat._

_The man shakes his head. The pain in the blackhaired's eyes flares up. So, too, the anger, at nothing or no one in particular. Perhaps anger at himself. It shines from him, like light from the sun._

_Suns don't belong in humid, foggy places. They are used to landscapes far-reaching and flat under their rays._

"_I should have...I should..." He gives up, never finishing the sentence. He looks to his comrade. The man's countenance betrays nothing. Only his eyes, the ever mirroring eyes of the moon._

_They are both shaking now. October night is falling. It will be bitterly cold._

_And they are alone. Their comrades are far, far away._

_The blackhaired man shuts his eyes tightly. Tears burn behind his eyelids. A few escape in spite of him._

_He thinks of home, and feels the blood seeping from him, slowly but steadily, deadly. _

_Parsifal, he thinks. You too. You, the best one of us. What, then, is left to care for?_

_And he thinks of Muirgeirn, and of her son which he knows cannot be his, because he had not shared her bed. But the looks of all those who think they know it is so sometimes almost succeeds in making him doubt his own mind. _

_A slight rustling beside him makes him open his eyes again. He expects the slight mocking he always sees in his comrades eyes. The reminder. I took the responsibility, though it wasn't even mine to take._

_The mirror-eyes of the man do look back at him, once more. But they are unreadable. He has stopped shaking again. He reaches out, and puts his arms around the blackhaired man, who is still shaking incontrollably. _

_Hush. Be still. _

_He drags him in. He cradles him, like a twin sibling in the womb. There is a strange sense of tender routine in his movements. He takes his hands, numb clutches from the cold, between his own, equally cold slender fingers. He makes a bundle of them there, in front of both of them, and they wait. For death or for salvation. Or, if Arthur's God is to be considered, for both._

_The blackhaired man understands it then. _

_There is no reason to miss home, for there is a piece of home here with him. There is no accusation, and no mocking in the moon's eyes, but for that which it mirrors. His own mocking of himself._

_The blackhaired one wants to hide from that mirror. Still shaking with cold, he hides the face at the neck of his companion. The scent of him is calming, pungent, like curling up with an animal, snug in its cave. There is curiously little fear to trace in him. It is clear, though, that he too is freezing._

_Lancelot puts his arms around the mans slender frame, and thinks of Mordred, or of whichever unknown son he might have sired, somewhere, some time. He thinks of all the women on whom he could have sired such a son. He thinks of their warm bosoms, and of Muirgeirn, and of a long lost loveaffair, filled with passion and arguments and with young foolhardiness._

_It occurs to him that he has never experienced just being held with love. No demands. No sexual tension. No judgment. Just love._

_Hush, my friend, my brother. Yes, you too are my brother. In the end all males are born of the same womb. Do not be afraid. I am here._

_The man with the scent of animal brushes a couple of black strands away and kisses his comrade's brow, very softly._

_Curled up, exhausted by fear, they sleep, heads leaned against each others heartbeat, not really, at that moment, expecting to ever wake up again._

_Beneath them, two streams of blood seep, back into one common pool._


	23. Battlegrounds II

_**Usual disclaimer apply. No copyright infringement intended.**_

* * *

_**23 – Battlegrounds II**_

_The woman stumbles down the hallway. It is dark. Everyone is asleep, the world empty but for the smoking torches. Their light is dim, sickly yellow. _

_The woman is clad only in her shift. She is grunting incoherently, her mumbling turning, in a painful rising curve, into barely contained groans of pain. She falls to her knees. Gets up, stumbling on._

_A dark, wet stain is left where she fell, similar to the one on the white linen of the shift. It is manifest, right around the area where her legs meet under the fabric._

_The stain is quickly growing._

_The maiden which has been so abruptly woken by the slamming door, just inside which she has been sleeping shakes the sleep from her head. Rapidly, she looks around, making quick survey of the situation, locating the source of the noise, then she is up, and in motion, running after her mistress. She is there just in time to catch her when she stumbles the second time._

_She knows she is not the only one who has been awoken. She can hear the noise of feet, approaching rapidly._

"_Mother," the woman mumbles. "I must see my mother. Please, Branwain. I will not be seen in public like this."_

_They are outside of the door of the lady of the house. It is in the quarters wherein she spent her maidenhood, that the woman once again abides. _

_But the only maiden now is a Cornish servant girl, and even the definition of this maidenhood is ambiguous. _

_This, however, does not make her slow of mind. Quickly making a decision, she grabs the heavy iron ring in the door next to them, slamming it open, waking lady Essailte's own maidservant, whose sleeping place is similar to her own._

_She ushers her own lady inside, and closes the door again._

_Within the room, it is dark, but for the soft glow of the embers in the brazier in the corner. Only shilouettes can be made out in here. Words are spoken, voices echoing off the wooden walls, initial outcries of surprise and then worried inquiring. A cacophony of sound. Startled questions, gasps, and the womans low, painful whisperings._

"_Ysolde, what is it?!"_

"_You, get my lady somewhere to lie down!"_

"_Mother..."_

"_Ysolde what on earth... oh, Blessed Virgin, no!"_

"_Mother...."_

"_Get her over here, get her here, lie her down."_

_Ripping of fabric ruptures the sound of strangled moaning._

"_Mother, I don't want to lose her..."_

"_There there dear, don't worry, it is all __fine, just __**fine..."**_

"_No, not again..."_

"_Now you lay down..."_

"_No..."_

"_Yes, lay down here, now, Ysolde!"_

"_Not again..." it is more a sob than words now._

"_What are you staring at, you ninny! Make yourself useful! You know what is needed!"_

_A stripe of yellow light from outside as the door is opened, followed by scared footsteps, a shadow disappearing down the hallway at a fast pace._

_The elder woman's voice is low, speaking to the remaining listener._

"_Look at that bleeding..."_

_The woman groans, like a wounded beast of burden._

"_We will have to deliver her, or she goes as well..." and then, low and bitter, as if the voice is talking to herself : "That is what comes from having an old cockerel do the honours..."_

"_Mother.... Mother no, I can feel her... I can feel her kicking, she wants to live..."_

"_Ysolde, lie down!"_

_The groaning turns into wailing, hysterical cries of protest. The elder woman's voice is merciless, a forced calm, hard as stone._

"_Branwain, is that not your name? Hold her, Branwain. Ysolde! You are __**bleeding, **__do you understand this?"_

"_DON'T YOU HURT HER!.... DON'T YOU DARE...."_

"_Ysolde!! This is not your decision. I am not of a mind to lose my fosterdaughter!"_

"_No... NO....! It is not her. She's innocent. It has nothing to with her!"_

"_What in the name of the Blessed Virgin is that monstrous bird doing in my window!? Shoo! Off with you!"_

"_Mylady, I am here, Branwain is here..."_

"_It is my fault, my fault, not hers, please...."_

"_Ysolde, lie down!"_

"_Mylady, please, hold my hand, __**please..." **__the maiden's voice is breaking._

"_**NO...**__You will never take her from me!"_

_The door is opening again. The second maiden returns, other women with her._

_They carry supplies. What is needed. Linen. Bundles of herbs. Cauldrons with steaming water. _

_And things hard to make out in the dark. They glint as of metal._

_The heavy oak door closes upon the scene of battle, and the screams from inside are muffled._

_It runs through the house of Marhaus, like the fire at the break of dawn. There is no hushing such a thing up._

_The whispers are subdued. But all hear the word 'miscarriage'._

_Speculations are made. Opinions stated of the bad omen such an event always constitutes._

_Even more so, because contrary to what she Lady herself was so sure of, it turns out it was a boy. _

_Or, it would have been._

_The Saxon is up early, he always is. However, he doesn't participate in the gossip. He finds it slightly distasteful. Besides, this is not for men to concern themselves with. Certain matters are the secrets of women alone._

_He walks his usual walk, munching on a loaf of bread, on the grounds outside the encircling of the Dun. The salted wind of the Irish ocean reminds him of home. Some distance away, he spots the fellow he recognizes as the warrior belonging to the lady whose misfortune all talk of. He squints, focusing sharp on the tall, thin figure of the man, staring across the waters. As if he doesn't know them. Some way away, perched on a rocky outcropping, sits the hawk which the Saxon has learnt to associate with this man. She is immobile, watching her master, as if waiting for some kind of response._

_But there is none._

_The Saxon continues on his course, stopping, at last, beside the warrior, measuring him up momentarily before turning to stare in the same direction, out across the waves, digesting what he has perceived._

_He finds that he is somewhat impressed. There is an aura and a poise to this character not often seen any more in a world which, so the Saxon finds, consists ever more of whimpering dogs than beings of pride._

_He weighs his words carefully before he decides uttering them. After all, all the buzzing about inside the house this morning, concerns the Lady which this man serves. And serves with great loyalty, so the Saxon has seen. It can't be amusing being an associate of hers in there this morning. No wonder he sought peace out here._

_He doesn't know the name of the warrior, and reminds himself that he must remember to find out._

"_Not so good a wind this morning," he muses, taking care to talk almost as much to himself as to the other, so that they can both pretend that it is really the weather he is commenting on._

_He breaks off a piece of the bread, offering some out. _

_The other turns his head slightly, looking down on the offering incredulously, as if he has never seen bread in his life. The Saxon waves it around tantalizingly for a bit. _

_The fish doesn't bite._

"_Suit yourself," and he puts the piece in his own mouth, chewing slowly and deliberately as he eyes the pattern of grey clouds hunting each other across the skies, above the open sea. It is grey this morning, a dull dark grey, like lead._

"_But I heard," he finally states, thinking aloud, "that she is married to some old fop. It is probably for the better. Old men produce weak offspring."_

_The face of the warrior turns at those words, a dull, glassy stare meeting the Saxon's eyes, and locking on them. The point is not missed. Once again, like the some nights back, in the feasting hall, the Saxon's eyebrows lift slightly, his mouth forming a soundless 'Oh.'_

_Perhaps not so old a sire then._

_He regards the man, weighing once again his next words very carefully, debating whether to say them or not, but finally deciding that everyone is served best by things being on the table._

"_So. Whose was it. His or yours?"_

_The stare moves from him again, turning back towards the waves, which crush themselves against the shore before them, as if he is pondering long the meaning of the words uttered._

_The Saxon waits. Then, after some minutes, he spies an almost invisible shrug._

_So, they don't really know. _

_Fair enough._

_The sun rises over the Isle of Manannan, life resuming around the Dun of Marhaus, as if nothing is different. _

_Only some know that it is. As the shadows move, the golden disc above them breaking through the clouds only in short bursts, the three figures stand immovable, eyes turned seawards. The man and his bird. And beside them, a slight respectful distance away, a stranger, offering his sympathy by sharing their dreadful silence._

_It is noon before he turns, and walks back inside, leaving the tall figure to his fate, lonely but for the bird perched on the outcropping beside him._

_He forgets to ask the man's name. But then, perhaps it isn't so important._


	24. Time

_**(A few hours before Badon Hill)**_

"_I offer my life, for my disgrace!"_

_The sound of the words leaving his sons mouth breaks his line of memory. Makes the Saxon feel old. Old as time._

_He almost wants to laugh at the ludicrousy of it all, were it not that this was his son, and the sound of those words tells him exactly how right Sigfriður was._

_She never forgave him for doing it. "You shouldn't have sent him to them," she said._

_She hadn't cared for his explanations about how they had to make sure the young warriors learned the battle tactics of the Romans, because this was the only way how they could hope to ever survive the onmarch of the Christians. There was only one way to do that, and that was send their young men to serve with the Roman army._

_She had not cared when he told her how many of the other chieftains sent their sons. She had roared about the folly of men and asked him if he was prepared for the tribe of the Jutes to become like these weaklings with enslaved spirits just in order to survive. Where was the honour in that, to live like thralls, asked Sigfriður, and threw him out of the house._

_He had sailed to Ireland again, to trade, for half a year, and bought the finest golden fibulae he could find, and brought them home to her. She had accepted them and let him back in the house, but it had never been the same._

_Now she is dead. She is dead, and has left him alone, horribly alone, to swallow the bitterness of the cup he has mixed for himself._

_Yes, the Saxon would have laughed, if it was not for the numb, yet excruciating regret in his heart._

_There, in front of him, he sits, this absurd Roman which has come back from his time in service at Lutetia. Fanatic, obsessed by thoughts of honour and glory, but showing, with these very words, that he has no idea about these concepts at all. He has become a Roman. He has lived too long amongst a barbaric people, where fathers slay their own sons or else are slain themselves. He knows nothing of the virtue of pragmatism, nor of how the greatest honour a warrior could ever hope for is exactly to be slain, preferably by the mightiest warrior of his own knowledge, to sit with the finest of Midgards warriors at the long tables of Oðin, in the great hall of Gimli._

_Why, thinks the Saxon with a kind of sad detachment, would I make you take your own life over a tactical error? Ræðwald has told me all about how it happened. You told them to hold the line, the phalanx, just as Rome has taught you, but they are not Romans, and the Sarmatian giant chopped up the ice, and they fell through. It was him, and lack of discipline, that were the cause of it all. Why would I make you take your own life like a dog because of that?_

_More importantly, if I deemed that you were a poor tactician, why would I want to send you to swell the ranks of Oðin?_

_The Saxon looks to his son, realizing that this man is lost to him._

_Not only lost. He gave him to the Romans himself. The glory and honour of battle will not be in this one's blood. The honour of victory, of keeping your word, of seeking great deeds. None of that. Only the shrewdness of the latin dogs. And it is his, Cerdic's, own fault. He remembers, again, the words uttered by this man earlier. 'Their ransom could pay for the entire campaign'._

_True. An astute observation indeed. Still, those are the words of a Roman dog. Unworthy of the son of any Saxon or Jute. _

_Ransom! What are we now, merchants?_

_The only shred he has left of her, the only tiny trace, and there it sits, grinning back at him, mocking his error and his regret. You sent him yourself, Cerdic, says Sigfriðurs eyes from the sockets of this young man. You brought it all upon yourself._

"_No..."_

_He wants to cut out those eyes, staring accusingly back at him, from the face of this twisted being, this man who is not even his son anymore. He almost does it, then controls himself and in stead cuts a deep gash in the cheek of the whelp. At least he does not scream, like a Roman would. _

_If you had, thinks the Saxon to himself, maybe I would have killed you after all. You are still of my blood. I would kill you rather than let you disgrace yourself by screaming._

_Our people are dying. The old ways are being lost to the pale, whimsical new God of the Romans. The Slave-god we call him, and for good reason._

_We let ourselves be tricked. For a few moments, we became like those we hated, stooping to sending our sons to serve by them, becoming like them, just in order to survive._

_Sigfriður was right. Where is the honour in living like thralls?_

"_Ræðwald, you're in charge now." The Saxon knows Ræðwald is neither as bright or as competent as a warlord could wish. But he doesn't care. Get this horrible mock image of a man out of my sight. This eternal reminder of my gravest error. My biggest regret. Sigfriður, forgive me._

"_Yep. You're like a son to me." And the oaf Ræðwald grins smugly at the words. Poor stupid sod._

_The whelp, however, reacts bitterly, without dignity. Losing his composure, he stabs the nearest unlucky sod and stomps off, cheek still bleeding. Oh well, thinks the Saxon, smiling bitterly. _

_And he stares into the flames, thinking again of the man he saw at the court of Tara, those years ago, when last he was there._

_The wild Sarmatian, whose name he never got to know, but whom in his mind he has called Diarmuid ever since, because that was the name the Irishmen whispered, when they had seen him dance his deadly dance, and Marhaus fell bleeding to the ground. Has Diarmuid returned, the hushed voices asked, and he had been able to smell their fear._

_The Saxon sighs, a heavy sigh. Diarmuid, who possibly lost his son, while the Saxon is stuck with his, now._

_Diarmuid, I am coming to meet you now. I know they will send you and your brothers, to defend the island from me. She is dead and I am bitter and old. My son is estranged to me, and I do not wish to live any more._

_I have elected you, the worthiest of all, to send me to Oðin._

_By your sword, I shall die, and go to Valhalla with honour._

_Thus thinks the Saxon, and the same night they move out, on his orders, heading for the great Wall. _

_**Muirgeirn relates:**_

They teach us, early on, when we are initiated, that time is not a straight line. I remember thinking it sounded ridiculous, back then. As I have gotten older, I have had to reassess that.

For one, time can pass quickly or slowly. It is a well known fact among my brothers men, that it passes slowly when you have fifteen years to wait out.

That's why they try not to think of it. They busy themselves to make it go faster.

Indeed, the older people get, the faster it seems to go. By the age of forty (and I know this of experience), it is sometimes like time buckles up on itself. No straight line there, by the Gods!

And again it is like I sit over the shantraj board with my friend, or I watch Dagonet teach my son all those things which I was somehow never able to. In those cases, time went fast too, but now the moments are monoliths, frozen and gargantuan, never moving.

And on Tintagel. There, time is of a completely different sort. Especially when Ysolde lived there.

Alone with time, out there, later, after her husband died. Maybe they had that in common, Tristran and her. They were alone with time. Except when they weren't.

Of course, her miscarriage changed all that. For a time.


End file.
